155 


FROM  THE  LIBRARY 
OF  ESTELLE  DOHENY 
AT  8  CHESTER  PLACE 
LOS  ANGELES 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


* 


By  Emerson  Hoi 

TK/ 

The  Man  Next&o0| 

The  Magnificent  Adventure 

Let  Us  Go  Afield 

Out  of  Doors 

The  Story  of  the  Cowboy 

The  Girl  at  the  Halfway  House 

D.    APPLETON    St    COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


Well,'  says  she,   'we  never  played  anything  for  pikers, 
did  we,  dad  ? '  " 

[PAGE  3sl 


BY 

EMERSON  HOUGH 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  MAGNIFICENT  ADVENTURE,"  "THE  MISSISSIPPI 

BUBBLE,"  "54°-40'  OR  FIGHT,"  "  OUT  OF  DOORS," 

"LET  us  GO  AFIELD,"  ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED  BY 

WILL  GREFE 


D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK  LONDON 

1917 


COPYRIGHT,  1917,  BT  EMERSON  HOUGH 


COPYRIGHT,  1916,  BY  THE  CURTIS  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


URL! 
SRUF, 


TO  THE  MEN  WITH  WHOM  I  RODE 
IN  THE  OLD  DAYS 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  How  COME  Us  TO  MOVE i 

II.  WHERE  WE  THREW  IN 18 

III.  Us  LIVING  IN  TOWN 29 

IV.  Us  AND  CHRISTMAS  EVE 37 

V.  Us  AND  THE  HOME  RANCH 49 

VI.  Us  AND  THEM  BETTER  THINGS   ....  60 

VII.  WHAT  THEIR  HIRED  MAN  DONE  ....  69 

VIII.  How  OLD  MAN  WRIGHT  DONE  BUSINESS  .  91 

IX.  Us  AND  THEIR  FENCE 99 

X.  Us  BEING  ALDERMAN 114 

XL  Us  AND  THE  FREEZE-OUT 123 

XII.  Us  AND  A  ACCIDENTAL  FRIEND   ....  129 

XIII.  THEM  AND  THE  RANGE  LAW 144 

XIV.  How  THEIR  HIRED  MAN  COME  BACK  .     .  150 
XV.  THE  COMMANDMENT  THAT  WAS  BROKE  .     .  162 

XVI.  How  I  WAS  FOREMAN 167 

XVII.  HIM  AND  THE  FRONT  DOOR 174 

XVIII.  How  TOM  STACKED  UP 185 

XIX.  THEM  AND  BONNIE  BELL 194 

XX.  WHAT  OUR  WILLIAM  DONE 201 

XXI.  HER  PA'S  WAY  OF  THINKING     ....  212 

XXII.  ME  AND  THEIR  LINE  FENCE 216 

vii 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER 
XXIII. 

TOM  AND  HER           

PAGE 

.  220 

XXIV. 
XXV. 

How  BONNIE  BELL  LEFT  Us  ALL  . 
ME  AND  THEM     ...... 

.     .     .234 

.    2^ 

XXVI. 

How  I  WENT  BACK  

.    260 

XXVII. 
XXVIII 

How  I  QUIT  OLD  MAN  WRIGHT  . 
THE  HOLE  IN  THE  WALL  . 

.       .       .    267 
.    27^ 

XXIX. 

How  THE  GAME  BROKE  .... 

.    277 

XXX. 

How  IT  COME  OUT  AFTER  ALL  . 

...    289 

LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


" '  Well,'   says   she,    '  we   never   played   anything    for 

pikers,    did    we,    dad  ? " Frontispiece 

FACING 
PAGE 

" '  Well/    says    he,    '  our    dog    is    more    of    a   trench 

fighter/"    . 74 

" '  I  know  now  what  it  means  to  be  a  woman  and  in 

love/" 230 

"  She  knowed  where  he  carried  his  gun."  ....     290 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


HOW    COME   US   TO   MOVE 

BONNIE  BELL  was  her  real  name  —  Bonnie 
Bell  Wright.  It  sounds  like  a  race  horse  or 
a  yacht,  but  she  was  a  girl.  Like  enough  that 
name  don't  suit  you  exactly  for  a  girl,  but  it  suited 
her  pa,  Old  Man  Wright.  I  don't  know  as  she  ever 
was  baptized  by  that  name,  or  maybe  baptized  at  all, 
for  water  was  scarce  in  Wyoming ;  but  it  never  would 
of  been  healthy  to  complain  about  that  name  before 
Old  Man  Wright  or  me,  Curly.  As  far  as  that  goes, 
she  had  other  names  too.  Her  ma  called  her  Mary 
Isabel  Wright ;  but  her  pa  got  to  calling  her  Bonnie  Bell 
some  day  when  she  was  little,  and  it  stuck,  especial 
after  her  ma  died. 

That  was  when  Bonnie  Bell  was  only  four  years  old, 
that  her  ma  died,  and  her  dying  made  a  lot  of  difference 
on  the  ranch.  I  reckon  Old  Man  Wright  probably 
stole  Bonnie  Bell's  ma  somewhere  back  in  the  States 
when  he  was  a  young  man.  She  must  of  loved  him 
some  or  she  wouldn't  of  came  to  Wyoming  with  him. 

i 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


She  was  tallish,  and  prettier  than  any  picture  in  colors 
—  and  game!  She  tried  all  her  life  to  let  on  she  liked 
the  range,  but  she  never  was  made  for  it. 

Now  to  see  her  throw  that  bluff  and  get  away  with 
it  with  Old  Man  Wright  —  and  no  one  else,  especial 
me  —  and  to  see  Old  Man  Wright  worrying,  trying 
to  figure  out  what  was  wrong,  and  not  being  able  to  — 
that  was  the  hardest  thing  any  of  us  ever  tried.  The 
way  he  worked  to  make  the  ma  of  Bonnie  Bell  happy 
was  plain  for  anybody  to  see.  He'd  stand  and  look 
at  the  place  where  he  seen  her  go  by  last,  and  forget 
he  had  a  rope  in  his  hand  and  his  horse  a-waiting. 

We  had  to  set  at  the  table,  all  three  of  us,  after  she 
died  —  him  and  the  kid  and  me  —  and  nobody  at  the 
end  of  the  table  where  she  used  to  set  —  her  always  in 
clothes  that  wasn't  just  like  ours.  I  couldn't  hardly 
stand  it.  But  that  was  how  game  Old  Man  Wright 
was. 

He  wasn't  really  old.  Like  when  he  was  younger, 
he  was  tall  and  straight,  and  had  sandy  hair  and  blue 
eyes,  and  weighed  round  a  hundred  and  eighty,  lean. 
Everybody  on  the  range  always  had  knew  Old  Man 
Wright.  He  was  captain  of  the  round-up  when  he 
was  twenty  and  president  of  the  cattle  association  as 
soon  as  it  was  begun.  I  don't  know  as  a  better  cow- 
man ever  was  in  Wyoming.  He  grew  up  at  it. 

So  did  Bonnie  Bell  grow  up  at  it,  for  that  matter, 

2 


HOW  COME  US  TO  MOVE 

She  pleased  her  pa  a  plenty,  for  she  took  to  a  saddle 
like  a  duck,  so  to  speak.  Time  she  was  fifteen  she 
could  ride  any  of  the  stock  we  had,  and  if  a  bronc' 
pitched  when  she  rid  him  she  thought  that  was  all 
right;  she  thought  it  was  just  a  way  horses  had  and 
something  to  be  put  up  with  that  didn't  amount  to 
much.  She  didn't  know  no  better.  She  never  did 
think  that  anything  or  anybody  in  the  world  had  it  in 
for  her  noways  whatever.  She  natural  believed  that 
everything  and  everybody  liked  her,  for  that  was  the 
way  she  felt  and  that  was  the  way  it  shaped  there  on 
the  range.  There  wasn't  a  hand  on  the  place  that 
would  of  allowed  anything  to  cross  Bonnie  Bell  in  any 
way,  shape  or  manner. 

She  grew  up  tallish,  like  her  pa,  and  slim  and  round, 
same  as  her  ma.  She  had  brownish  or  yellowish  hair, 
too,  which  was  sunburned,  for  she  never  wore  no  bon- 
net; but  her  eyes  was  like  her  ma's,  which  was  dark 
and  not  blue,  though  her  skin  was  white  like  her  pa's 
under  his  shirt  sleeves,  only  she  never  had  no  freckles 
the  way  her  pa  had  —  some  was  large  as  nickels  on 
him  in  places.  She  maybe  had  one  freckle  on  her  nose, 
but  little. 

Bonnie  Bell  was  a  rider  from  the  time  she  was  a 
baby,  like  I  said,  and 'she  went  into  all  the  range  work 
like  she  was  built  for  it.  Wild  she  was,  like  a  filly  or 
yearling  that  kicks  up  its  heels  when  the  sun  sbines 

3 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


and  the  wind  blows.  And  pretty !  Say,  a  new  wagon 
with  red  wheels  and  yellow  trimmings  ain't  fit  for  to 
compare  with  her,  not  none  at  all! 

When  her  ma  died  Old  Man  Wright  wasn't  good  for 
much  for  a  long  time,  for  he  was  always  studying  over 
something.  Though  he  never  talked  a  word  about  her 
I  allow  that  somehow  or  other  after  she  died  he  kind 
of  come  to  the  conclusion  that  maybe  she  hadn't  been 
happy  all  the  time,  and  he  got  to  thinking  that  maybe 
he'd  been  to  blame  for  it  somehow.  After  it  was  too 
late,  maybe,  he  seen  that  she  couldn't  never  have  grew 
to  be  no  range  woman,  no  matter  how  long  she  lived. 

But  still  we  all  got  to  take  things,  and  he  done  so 
the  best  he  could ;  and  after  the  kid  begun  to  grow  up 
he  was  happier.  All  the  time  he  was  a-rolling  up  the 
range  and  the  stock,  till  he  was  richer  than  anybody 
you  ever  did  see,  though  his  clothes  was  just  about 
the  same.  But,  come  round  the  time  when  Bonnie 
Bell  was  fourteen  or  fifteen  years  old,  about  propor- 
tionate like  when  a  filly  or  heifer  is  a  yearling  or  so, 
he  begun  to  study  more. 

There  was  a  room  up  in  the  half -story  where  some- 
times we  kept  things  we  didn't  need  all  the  time  — 
the  fancy  saddles  and  bridles  and  things.  Some  old 
trunks  was  in  it.  I  reckon  maybe  Old  Man  Wright 
went  up  there  sometimes  when  he  didn't  say  nothing 
about  it  to  nobody.  Anyhow  once  I  went  up  there 

4 


HOW  COME  US  TO  MOVE 

for  something  and  I  seen  him  setting  on  the  floor, 
something  in  his  hand  that  he  was  looking  at  so  steady 
he  never  heard  me.  I  don't  know  what  it  was  — 
picture  maybe,  or  letter;  and  his  face  was  different 
somehow  —  older  like  —  so  that  he  didn't  seem  like  the 
same  man.  You  see,  Old  Man  Wright  was  maybe 
soft  like  on  the  inside,  like  plenty  of  us  hard  men  are. 

I  crept  out  and  felt  right  much  to  blame  for  seeing 
what  I  had,  though  I  didn't  mean  to.  Seems  like  all 
my  life  I  had  been  seeing  or  hearing  things  I  hadn't  no 
business  to  —  some  folks  never  do  things  right. 
That's  me.  I  never  told  Old  Man  Wright  about  my 
seeing  him  there  and  he  don't  know  it  yet.  But  it 
wasn't  so  long  after  that  he  come  to  me,  and  he  hadn't 
been  shaved  for  four  days,  and  he  was  looking  kind 
of  odd;  and  he  says  to  me: 

"  Curly,  we're  up  against  it  for  fair!  "  says  he. 

"  Why,  what's  wrong,  Colonel?"  says  I,  for  I  seen 
something  was  wrong  all  right. 

He  didn't  answer  at  first,  but  sort  of  throwed  his 
hand  round  to  show  I  was  to  come  along. 

At  last  he  says: 

"  Curly,  we're  shore  up  against  it ! "  He  sighed 
then,  like  he'd  lost  a  whole  trainload  of  cows. 

"  What's  up,  Colonel  ?  "  says  I.     "  Range  thieves  ?  " 

"Hell,  no!"  says  he.  "I  wish  'twas  that  — I'd 
like  it" 

5 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


"  Well,"  says  I,  "  we  got  plenty  of  this  water,  and 
we  branded  more  than  our  average  per  cent  of  calves 
this  spring."  For  such  was  so  that  year  —  everything 
was  going  fine.  We  stood  to  sell  eighty  thousand  dol- 
lars' worth  of  beef  cows  that  fall. 

He  didn't  say  a  word,  and  I  ast  him  if  there  was 
any  nesters  coming  in;  and  he  shook  his  head. 

"  I  seen  about  that  when  I  taken  out  my  patents 
years  ago.  No;  the  range  is  safe.  That's  what's  the 
matter  with  it ;  the  title  is  good  —  too  good." 

"  Well,  Colonel,"  says  I,  some  disgusted  and  getting 
up  to  walk  away,  "  if  ever  you  want  to  talk  to  me  any 
send  somebody  to  where  I'm  at.  I'm  busy." 

"  Set  down,  Curly,"  says  he,  not  looking  at  me. 

So  I  done  so. 

"  Son,"  says  he  to  me  —  he  often  called  me  that 
along  of  me  being  his  segundo  for  so  many  years  — 
"  don't  go  away !  I  need  you.  I  need  something." 

Now  I  ain't  nothing  but  a  freckled  cowpuncher,  with 
red  hair,  and  some  says  both  my  eyes  don't  track  the 
same,  and  I  maybe  toe  in.  Besides,  I  ain't  got  much 
education.  But,  you  see,  I've  been  with  Old  Man 
Wright  so  long  we've  kind  of  got  to  know  each  other 
—  not  that  I'm  any  good  for  divine  Providence  neither. 

"  Curly,"  says  he  after  a  while  when  he  got  his  nerve 
up,  "  Curly,  it  looks  like  I  got  to  sell  out  —  I  got  to  sell 
the  Circle  Arrow !  " 

6 


HOW  COME  US  TO  MOVE 

Huh !  That  was  worse  than  anything  that  ever  hit 
me  all  my  life,  and  we've  seen  some  trouble  too.  I 
couldn't  say  a  word  to  that. 

After  about  a  hour  he  begun  again. 

"  I  reckon  I  got  to  sell  her,"  says  he.  "  I  got  to  quit 
the  game.  Curly,  you  and  me  has  got  to  make  a 
change  —  I'm  afraid  I've  got  to  sell  her  out  —  lock, 
stock  and  barrel." 

"  And  not  be  a  cowman  no  more  ?  "  says  I. 

He  nods.  I  look  round  to  see  him  close.  He  was 
plumb  sober,  and  his  face  was  solemn,  like  it  was  the 
time  I  caught  him  looking  in  the  trunk. 

"  That  irrigation  syndicate  is  after  me  again,"  says 
he. 

"Well,  what  of  it?"  says  I.  "Let  'em  go  some 
place  else.  It  ain't  needful  for  us  to  make  no  more 
money  —  we're  plumb  rich  enough  for  anybody  on 
earth.  Besides,  when  a  man  is  a  cowman  he's  got  as 
far  as  he  can  go  —  there  ain't  nothing  in  the  world 
better  than  that.  You  know  it  and  so  do  I." 

He  nods,  for  what  I  said  was  true,  and  he  knowed 
it. 

"  Colonel,"  I  ast  him,  "  have  you  been  playing 
poker?" 

"  Some,"  says  he.  "  Down  to  the  Cheyenne 
Club." 

"  How  much  did  you  lose  ?  " 

7. 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


"  I  didn't  lose  nothing  —  I  won  several  thousand 
dollars  and  eight  hundred  head  of  steers  last  week," 
says  he. 

"  Well,  then,  what  in  hell  is  wrong?  "  says  I. 

"  It  goes  back  a  long  ways,"  says  he  after  a  while, 
and  now  his  face  looked  more  than  ever  like  it  did 
when  he  was  there  a-going  through  them  trunks.  I 
turns  my  own  face  away  now,  so  as  not  to  embarrass 
him,  for  I  seen  he  was  sort  of  off  his  balance. 

"  It's  her,"  says  the  old  man  at  last. 

I  might  have  knew  that  —  might  have  knew  it  was 
either  Bonnie  Bell  or  her  ma  that  he  had  in  his  mind 
all  the  time;  but  he  couldn't  say  a  damn  word.  He 
went  on  after  a  while : 

"  When  she  was  sick  I  begun  to  get  sort  of  afraid 
about  things.  One  day  she  taken  Bonnie  Bell  by  one 
hand  and  me  by  the  other,  and  says  she  to  me :  *  John 
Willie ' —  she  called  me  that,  though  nobody  knew  it 
maybe  — '  John  Willie/  says  she,  *  I  want  to  ask  some- 
thing I  never  dared  ask  before,  because  I  never  did 
know  before  how  much  you  cared  for  me  real,'  says 
she.  Oh,  damn  it,  Curly,  it  ain't  nobody's  business 
what  she  said." 

After  a  while  he  went  on  again. 

"  '  Lizzie,'  says  I  to  her,  '  what  is  it?  I'll  do  any- 
thing for  you/ 

"  '  Promise  me,  then,  John  Willie/  says  she,  '  that 

8 


HOW  COME  US  TO  MOVE 

you'll  educate  my  girl  and  give  her  the  life  she  ought  to 
have/ 

"  '  Why,  Lizzie,'  says  I,  '  of  course  I  will.  I'll 
do  anything  in  the  world  you  say,  the  way  you  ask 
it.' 

"  '  Then  give  her  the  place  that  she  ought  to  have  in 
life,'  she  says  to  me." 

He  stopped  talking  then  for  maybe  a  hour,  and  at 
last  he  says  again : 

"  Well,  Curly,  let  it  go  at  that.  I  can't  talk  about 
things.  I  couldn't  ever  talk  about  her." 

I  couldn't  talk  neither.  After  a  while  he  kind  of 
went  on,  slow: 

"  The  kid's  fifteen  now,"  says  he  at  last.  "  She's 
going  to  be  a  looker  like  her  ma.  It's  in  her  blood 
to  grow  up  in  the  cow  business  too  —  that's  me.  But 
she's  got  it  in  her,  besides,  like  her  ma,  to  do  some- 
thing different. 

"  I  don't  like  to  do  my  duty  no  more  than  anybody 
else  does,  but  it  shore  is  my  duty  to  educate  that  kid 
and  give  her  a  chance  for  a  bigger  start  than  she  can 
get  out  here.  It  was  that  that  was  in  her  ma's  mind  all 
the  time.  She  didn't  want  her  girl  to  grow  up  out  here 
in  Wyoming ;  she  wanted  her  to  go  back  East  and  play 
the  game  —  the  big  game  —  the  limit  the  roof.  She 
ast  it ;  and  she's  got  to  have  it,  though  she's  been  dead 
more  than  ten  years  now.  As  for  you  and  me,  it 

9 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


can't  make  much  difference.  We've  brought  her  up 
the  best  we  knew  this  far." 

"  Well,  you  can't  sell  the  Circle  Arrow  now,"  says  I, 
"and  I'll  tell  you  why." 

"  Tell  me,"  says  he. 

"  Well,  let's  figure  on  it,"  says  I.  "  It'll  take  any- 
ways four  years  to  develop  Bonnie  Bell  ready  to  turn 
off  the  range,  according  to  the  way  such  things  run. 
She'll  have  to  go  to  school  for  at  least  four  years. 
Why  not  let  the  thing  run  like  it  lays  till  then,  while 
you  send  her  East  ?  " 

"  You  mean  to  some  girls'  college  ? "  says  he. 
"  Well,  I've  been  thinking  that  all  out.  She'll  have  to 
go  to  the  same  kind  of  schools  her  ma  did  and  be  made 
a  lady  of,  like  her  ma,"  He  looks  a  little  more  cheer- 
ful and  says  to  me :  "  That'll  put  it  off  four  years 
anyways,  won't  it?  " 

"  Shore  it  will,"  says  I.  "  Maybe  something  will 
happen  by  that  time.  It  don't  stand  to  reason  that 
them  syndicate  people  will  be  as  foolish  four  years 
from  now  as  they  are  today;  and  like  enough  you 
can't  sell  the  range  then  nohow."  That  makes  us 
both  feel  a  lot  cheer  fuller. 

Well,  later  on  him  and  me  begun  looking  up  in 
books  what  was  the  best  college  for  girls,  though  none 
of  'em  said  anything  about  caring  special  for  girls 
that  knew  more  of  horses  and  cows  than  anything  else. 

10 


HOW  COME  US  TO  MOVE 

We  seen  names  of  plenty  of  schools  —  Vassar  and 
Ogontz  and  Bryn  Mawr  —  but  we  couldn't  pronounce 
them  names ;  so  we  voted  against  them  all.  At  last  I 
found  one  that  looked  all  right  —  it  was  named  Smith. 

"  Here's  the  place !  "  says  I  to  Old  Man  Wright ;  and 
I  showed  him  on  the  page.  "  This  man  Smith  sounds 
like  he  had  some  horse  sense.  Let's  send  Bonnie  Bell 
to  Old  Man  Smith  and  see  what  he'll  do  with  her." 

Well,  we  done  that.  Old  Man  Smith  must  of  knew 
his  business  pretty  well,  for  what  he  done  with  Bonnie 
Bell  was  considerable.  She  was  changed  when  she 
got  back  to  us  the  first  time,  come  summer  of  the  first 
year.  I  didn't  get  East  and  I  never  did  meet  up  with 
Old  Man  Smith  at  all ;  but  I  say  he  must  of  knowed  his 
business.  His  catalogue  said  his  line  was  to  make 
girls  appreciate  the  Better  Things  of  life.  He  spelled 
Better  Things  in  big  letters.  Well,  I  don't  know 
whether  Bonnie  Bell  begun  to  hanker  after  them  Bet- 
ter Things  or  not,  but  she  was  changed  after  that 
every  year  more  and  more  when  she  come  home.  In 
four  years  she  wasn't  the  same  girl. 

She  wasn't  spoiled  —  you  couldn't  spoil  her  noways. 
She  was  as  much  tickled  as  ever  with  the  colts  and  the 
calves  and  the  chickens  and  the  alfalfa  and  the  moun- 
tains; and  she  could  still  ride  anything  they  brought 
along,  and  she  hadn't  forgot  how  to  rope.  Still,  she 
was  different.  Her  clothes  was  different.  Her  hats 

ii 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


was  different.  Her  shoes  was  different.  Her  hair 
was  done  up  different.  Somehow  she  had  grew  up 
less  like  her  pa  and  more  like  her  ma.  So  then  I  seen 
that  'bout  the  worst  had  happened  to  him  and  me  that 
could  happen.  Them  Better  Things  was  not  such  as 
growed  in  Wyoming. 

Now,  Old  Man  Wright  and  me,  us  two,  had  brought 
up  the  kid.  Me  being  foreman,  that  was  part  of  my 
business  too.  We  been  busy.  I  could  see  we  was 
going  to  be  a  lot  busier.  Before  long  something  was 
due  to  pop.  At  last  the  old  man  comes  to  me  once 
more. 

"  Curly,"  says  he,  "  I  was  in  hopes  something  would 
happen,  so  that  this  range  of  ours  wouldn't  be  no  temp- 
tation to  them  irrigation  colonizers ;  I  was  hoping  some-> 
thing  would  happen  to  them,  so  they  would  lose  their 
money.  But  they  lost  their  minds  instead.  These  last 
four  years  they  raised  their  bid  on  the  Circle  Arrow 
a  half  million  dollars  every  year.  They've  offered 
me  more  money  than  there  is  in  the  whole  wide  world. 
They  say  now  that  for  the  brand  and  the  range  stock 
and  the  home  ranch,  and  all  the  hay  lands  and  ditches 
that  we  put  in  so  long  ago,  they'll  give  me  three  mil- 
lion eight  hundred  thousand  dollars,  a  third  of  it  in 
real  money  and  the  rest  secured  on  the  place.  What 
do  you  think  of  that?  " 

"  I  think  somebody  has  been  drunk,"  says  I. 

12 


HOW  COME  US  TO  MOVE 

"  There  ain't  that  much  money  at  all.  I  remember 
seeing  Miss  Anderson,  Bonnie  Bell's  teacher  down  at 
Meeteetse,  make  a  million  dollars  on  the  blackboard, 
and  it  reached  clear  acrost  it  —  six  ciphers,  with  a 
figure  in  front  of  it.  And  that  was  only  one  million 
dollars.  When  you  come  to  talking  nearly  four  mil- 
lion dollars  — why,  there  ain't  that  much  money. 
They're  fooling  you,  Colonel." 

"  I  wisht  they  was,"  says  he,  sighing ;  "  but  the  agent 
keeps  pestering  me.  He  says  they'll  make  it  four  mil- 
lion flat  or  maybe  more  if  I'll  just  let  go.  You  see, 
Curly,  we  picked  the  ground  mighty  well  years  ago, 
and  them  ditches  we  let  in  from  the  mountains  for  the 
stock  years  ago  is  what  they  got  their  eyes  on  now. 
They  say  that  folks  can  dry- farm  the  benches  up  to- 
ward the  mountains  —  they  can't,  and  I  don't  like  to 
see  nobody  try  it.  I'm  a  cowman  and  I  don't  like  to 
see  the  range  used  for  nothing  else.  But  what  am  I 
going  to  do?  " 

"  Well,  what  are  you  going  to  do,  Colonel  ?  "  says 
I.  "  I  know  what  you'll  do,  but  I'll  just  ast  you." 

"  Of  course,"  says  he,  "  it  ain't  in  my  heart  to  sell 
the  Circle  Arrow  —  you  know  that  —  but  I  got  to. 
Here's  Bonnie  Bell.  She's  finished  —  that  is  to  say, 
she  ain't  finished,  but  just  beginning.  She's  at  the 
limit  of  what  the  range  will  produce  for  her  right 
now.  We  got  to  move  on." 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


I  nodded  to  him.  We  both  felt  the  same  about  it. 
It  wasn't  so  much  what  happened  to  us. 

"  Well,"  says  he,  "  we  got  to  pick  out  a  place  for  her 
to  live  at  after  we  sell  the  range.  I  thought  of  St. 
Louis;  but  it's  too  hot,  and  I  never  liked  the  market 
there.  Kansas  City  is  a  good  cowtown;  but  it  ain't 
as  good  as  Chicago.  I  reckon  Chicago  maybe  is  as 
good  a  cowtown  as  there  is." 

"  Well,  Colonel,"  says  I,  "  I  reckon  here's  where  I  go 
West." 

"  You  go  where  ?  "  says  he  to  me,  sharp. 

"  West,"  says  I. 

"  There  ain't  no  West,"  says  he.  "  Besides,  what 
do  you  mean?  What  are  you  talking  about,  going 
anywheres?  " 

"  You  said  you  was  going  to  sell  the  range,"  says  I. 
"  That  ends  my  work,  don't  it  ?  I  filed  on  eight  or  ten 
homesteads,  and  so  did  the  other  boys.  It's  all  sur- 
veyed and  patented,  and  it's  yours  to  sell." 

He  didn't  say  nothing  for  a  while,  his  Adam's  apple 
walking  up  and  down  his  neck. 

"  You  been  square  to  me  all  your  life,  Colonel,"  says 
I,  "  and  I  can't  kick.  All  cowpunchers  has  to  be  turned 
out  to  grass  sometime  and  it's  been  a  long  time  coming 
for  me.  I'm  as  old  as  you  are,  Colonel,  and  I  can't 
complain." 

"  Curly,"  says  he,  "  what  you're  saying  cuts  me  a 

J4 


HOW  COME  US  TO  MOVE 

little  more  than  anything  ever  did  happen  to  me.  Ain't 
I  always  done  right  by  you?  " 

"Of  course  you  have,  Colonel.  Who  said  you 
hadn't?" 

"  Ain't  you  always  been  square  with  me  ?  " 

"  Best  I  knew  how,"  says  I.  "  I  never  let  my  right 
hand  know  what  my  left  was  doing  with  a  running  iron 
• — and  I  was  left-handed." 

"  That's  right ;  you  helped  me  get  my  start  in  the 
early  days.  I  owe  a  lot  to  you  —  a  lot  more  than  I've 
ever  paid;  but  the  least  I  could  do  for  you  would  be 
to  give  you  a  home  and  a  place  at  my  table  as  long  as 
ever  you  live,  and  more  wages  than  you're  worth  — 
ain't  that  the  truth  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  how  you  figure  that,"  says  I. 

"  Yes ;  you  do,  too,  know  how  I  figure  that  —  you 
know  there  ain't  but  one  way  I  could  figure  it.  You 
stay  with  me  till  hell  freezes  under  both  of  us ;  and  I 
don't  want  to  hear  no  more  talk  about  you  going 
West  or  nowheres  else." 

Folkses'  Adam's  apples  bothers  sometimes. 

"  We  built  this  brand  together,"  says  he,  "  and  what 
right  you  got  to  shake  it  now?  "  says  he;  me  not  being 
able  now  to  talk  much.  "  We  rode  this  range,  every 
foot  of  it,  together,  and  more  than  once  slept  under 
the  same  saddle  blanket.  I've  trusted  you  to  tally  a 
thousand  head  of  steers  for  me  a  half  dozen  times  a 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


year.  You've  had  the  spring  rodeo  in  your  hands 
ever  since  I  can  remember.  You've  been  one-half  pa 
of  that  kid.  Has  times  changed  so  much  that  you  got 
a  right  to  talk  the  way  you're  talking?  " 

"  You're  going  back  into  the  States,  though, 
Colonel,"  says  I.  "  They  turn  men  out  there  when 
they're  forty  —  and  I'll  never  see  forty  again.  I  read 
in  the  papers  that  forty  is  the  dead  line  back  there." 

"  It  ain't  in  Wyoming,"  says  he. 

"  We  won't  be  in  Wyoming  no  more,  there,"  says  I. 

He  set  and  looked  off  across  the  range  toward  the 
Gunsight  Gap,  at  the  head  of  the  river,  and  I  could  see 
him  get  white  under  his  freckles.  He  was  game,  but 
he  was  scared. 

"  We  can't  help  it,  Curly,"  says  he.  "  We've  raised 
the  girl  between  us  and  we've  got  to  stick  all  the  way 
through.  You've  been  my  foreman  here  and  you  got 
to  be  my  foreman  there  in  the  city.  We'll  land  there 
with  a  few  million  dollars  or  so  and  I  reckon  we'll 
learn  the  game  after  a  while." 

"  I'd  make  a  hell  of  a  vallay,  wouldn't  I,  Colonel?  " 
says  I. 

"  I  didn't  ast  you  to  be  no  vallay  for  me,"  says  he. 
"  I  ast  you  to  be  my  foreman  —  you  know  damn  well 
what  I  mean." 

I  did  know,  too,  far  as  that's  concerned,  and  I 
thought  more  of  Old  Man  Wright  then  than  I  ever  did. 

16 


HOW  COME  US  TO  MOVE 

Of  course  it's  hard  for  men  to  talk  much  out  on  the 
range,  and  we  didn't  talk.  We  only  set  for  quite  a 
while,  with  our  knees  up,  breaking  sticks  and  looking 
off  at  the  Gunsight  Gap,  on  top  of  the  range  —  just  as 
if  we  hadn't  saw  it  there  any  day  these  past  forty 
years. 

I  was  plenty  scared  about  this  new  move  and  so  was 
he.  It's  just  like  riding  into  a  ford  where  the  water 
is  stained  with  snow  or  mud  and  running  high,  and 
where  there  ain't  no  low  bank  on  the  other  side. 
You  don't  know  how  it  is,  but  you  have  to  chance  it. 
It  looked  bad  to  me  and  it  did  to  him ;  but  we  had  rid 
into  such  places  before  together  and  we  both  knew 
we  had  to  do  it  now. 

"  Colonel,"  says  I  at  last  to  him,  "  I  don't  like  it 
none,  but  I  got  to  go  through  with  you  if  you  want 
me  to." 

He  sort  of  hit  the  side  of  my  knee  with  the  back  of 
his  hand,  like  he  said :  "  It's  a  trade."  And  it  was  a 
trade. 

That's  how  come  us  to  move  from  Wyoming  to 
Chicago,  looking  for  some  of  them  Better  Things. 


w 


II 

WHERE   WE   THREW    IN 

'  '"¥"  T  TELL>  Curly,"  says  Old  Man  Wright  to 
me  one  day  a  couple  of  months  after 
we  had  our  first  talk,  "  I  done  it !  " 

"You  sold  her?"  says  I. 

"  Yes,"  says  he. 

"  How  much  did  you  set  'em  back,  Colonel  ?  "  says  I ; 
and  he  says  they  give  him  a  million  and  a  half  down,  or 
something  like  that,  and  the  balance  of  four  million 
and  a  quarter  deferred,  one,  two,  three. 

That's  more  money  than  all  Wyoming  is  worth,  let 
alone  the  Yellow  Bull  Valley,  which  we  own. 

"  That's  a  good  deal  of  money  deferred,  ain't  it, 
Colonel  ?  "  says  I. 

"  Well,  I  don't  blame  'em,"  he  says.  "  If  I  had  to 
pay  anybody  three  or  four  million  dollars  I'd  defer  it 
as  long  as  I  could.  Besides,  I'm  thinking  they'll  defer 
it  more  than  one,  two  and  three  years  if  they  wait  for 
them  grangers  to  pay  'em  back  their  money  with  what 
they  can  raise. 

"  But  ain't  it  funny  how  you  and  me  made  all  that 
money?  It's  a  proof  of  what  industry  and  economy 

18 


WHERE  WE  THREW  IN 

can  do  when  they  can't  help  theirselfs.  When  Tug 
Patterson  wished  this  range  on  me  forty  years  ago  I 
hated  him  sinful.  Yet  we  run  the  ditches  in  from 
year  to  year,  gradual,  and  here  we  are! 

"  Well,  now,"  he  goes  on,  "  they  want  possession 
right  away.  We  got  to  pull  our  freight.  You  and 
me,  Curly,  we  ain't  got  no  home  no  more." 

That  was  the  truth.  In  three  weeks  we  was  on  our 
way,  turned  out  in  the  world  like  orphans.  Still,  Old 
Man  Wright  he  just  couldn't  bear  to  leave  without  one 
more  whirl  with  the  boys  down  at  the  Cheyenne  Club. 
He  was  gone  down  there  several  days;  and  when  he 
come  back  he  was  hungry,  but  not  thirsty. 

"  It's  no  use,  Curly,"  says  he.  "  It's  my  weakness 
and  I  shore  deplore  it;  but  I  can't  seem  to  get  the 
better  of  my  ways." 

"  How  much  did  you  lose,  Colonel?  "  I  ast  him. 

"  Lose  ?  "  says  he.  "  I  didn't  lose  nothing.  I  win 
four  sections  of  land  and  five  hundred  cows.  I  didn't 
go  to  do  it  and  I'm  sorry;  because,  what  am  I  going 
to  do  with  them  cows  ?  " 

"  Deed  'em  to  Bonnie  Bell,"  says  I.  "  Trust  'em 
out  to  some  square  fellow  you  know  on  shares.  We 
may  need  'em  for  a  stake  sometime." 

"That's  a  good  idea,"  says  he.  "Not  that  I'm 
scared  none  of  going  broke.  Money  comes  to  me  — - 
I  can't  seem  to  shoo  it  away." 

19 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


"  I  never  had  so  much  trouble,"  says  I,  "  but  if  you're 
feeling  liberal  give  me  a  chaw  of  tobacco  and  let's  talk 
things  over." 

We  done  that,  and  we  both  admitted  we  was  scared 
to  leave  Wyoming  and  go  to  Chicago.  We  had  to 
make  our  break  though. 

Bonnie  Bell  was  plumb  happy.  She  kept  on  telling 
her  pa  about  the  things  she  was  going  to  do  when  she 
got  to  the  city.  She  told  him  that,  so  far  as  she  was 
concerned,  she'd  never  of  left  the  range;  but  since  he 
wanted  to  go  East  and  insisted  so,  why,  she  was  game 
to  go  along.  And  he  nods  all  the  time  while  she  talks 
that  way  to  him  —  him  aching  inside. 

We  didn't  know  any  more  than  a  rabbit  where  to  go 
when  we  got  to  Chicago ;  but  Bonnie  Bell  took  charge 
of  us.  We  put  up  in  the  best  hotel  there  was,  one  that 
looks  out  over  the  lake  and  where  it  costs  you  a  dollar 
every  time  you  turn  round.  The  bell-hops  used  to  give  • 
us  the  laugh  quiet  at  first,  and  when  the  jnanager  come 
and  sized  us  up  he  couldn't  make  us  out  till  we  told 
him  a  few  things.  Gradual,  though,  folks  round  that 
hotel  began  to  take  notice  of  us,  especial  Bonnie  Bell. 
They  found  out,  too,  like  enough,  that  Old  Man  Wright 
had  more  money  than  anybody  in  Chicago  ever  did 
have  before  —  at  least  he  acted  like  he  had. 

"  Curly,"  says  he  to  me  one  day,  "  I  got  to  go  and 
take  out  a  new  bank  account.  I  can't  write  checks  fast 

20 


WHERE  WE  THREW  IN 

enough  on  one  bank  to  keep  up  with  Bonnie  Bell," 
says  he. 

"  What's  she  doing,  Colonel  ?  "  I  ast  him. 

"  Everything,"  says  he.  "  Buying  new  clothes  and 
pictures,  and  lots  of  things.  Besides,  she's  going  to  be 
building  her  house  right  soon." 

"What's  that?"  I  says. 

"  Her  house.  She's  bought  some  land  up  there  on 
the  Lake  Front,  north  of  one  of  them  parks;  it  lays 
right  on  the  water  and  you  can  see  out  across  the  lake. 
She's  picked  a  good  range.  If  we  had  all  that  water 
out  in  Wyoming  we  could  do  some  business  with  it, 
though  here  it's  a  waste  —  only  just  to  look  at. 

"  She's  got  a  man  drawing  plans  for  her  new  house, 
Curly  —  she  says  we've  got  to  get  it  done  this  year. 
That  girl  shore  is  a  hustler !  Account  of  them  things, 
you  can  easy  see  it's  time  for  me  to  go  and  fix  things 
up  with  a  new  bank." 

So  we  go  to  the  bank  he  has  his  eye  on,  about  the 
biggest  and  coldest  one  in  town  —  good  place  to  keep 
butter  and  aigs ;  and  we  got  in  line  with  some  of  these 
Chicago  people  that  are  always  in  a  hurry,  they  don't 
know  why.  We  come  up  to  where  there  is  a  row  of 
people  behind  bars,  like  a  jail.  The  jail  keepers  they 
set  outside  at  glass-top  tables,  looking  suspicious  as 
any  case  keeper  in  a  faro  game.  They  all  looked  like 
Sunday-school  folks.  I  felt  uneasy. 

21 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


Old  Man  Wright  he  steps  up  to  one  of  the  tables 
where  a  fellow  is  setting  with  eyeglasses  and  chin 
whiskers  —  oldish  sort  of  man;  and  you  knowed  he 
looked  older  than  he  was.  He  didn't  please  me.  He 
sizes  us  up.  We  was  still  wearing  the  clothes  we 
bought  in  Cheyenne  at  the  Golden  Eagle,  which  we 
thought  was  good  enough;  but  this  man,  all  he  says 
to  us  was : 

"  What  can  I  do  for  you,  my  good  people  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  just  what,"  says  Old  Man  Wright, 
"  but  I  want  to  open  a  account." 

"  Third  desk  to  the  right,"  says  he. 

So  we  went  down  three  desks  and  braced  another 
man  to  see  if  we  please  could  put  some  money  in  his 
bank.  This  one  had  whiskers  parted  in  the  middle 
on  his  chin.  I  shore  hated  him. 

"  What  can  I  do  for  you,  my  good  man  ?  "  says 
he. 

"  I  was  thinking  of  opening  a  account,"  says  Old 
Man  Wright. 

"  What  business  ?  "  says  he. 

"  Poker  and  cows,"  says  Old  Man  Wright. 

The  fellow  with  whiskers  turned  away. 

"  I'm  very  busy,"  says  he. 

"  So  am  I,"  says  Old  Man  Wright.  "  But  what 
about  the  account?" 

"  You'd  better  see  Mr.  Watts,  three  windows  down," 

22 


WHERE  WE  THREW  IN 

says  the  man  with  the  whiskers.     So  we  went  on  a 
little  farther  down. 

"  How  much  of  a  deposit  did  you  want  to  make,  my 
good  friend  ?  "  ast  this  new  man,  who  had  little  whis- 
kers in  front  of  his  ears.  I  didn't  like  him  none  at 
all. 

Old  Man  Wright  he  puts  his  hand  in  his  pocket  and 
pulls  out  a  lot  of  fine  cut,  and  some  keys  and  a  knife 
and  some  paper  money,  and  says  he : 

"  I  don't  know  —  it  might  run  as  high  as  three  hun- 
dred dollars." 

The  man  with  the  little  whiskers  he  pushes  back  his 
roll. 

"  We  couldn't  think  of  opening  so  small  a  account," 
says  he.  "  I  recommend  you  to  our  Savings  Depart- 
ment, two  floors  below." 

Old  Man  Wright  he  turns  to  me  and  says  he : 

"  Haven't  they  got  the  fine  system  ?  They  always 
have  a  place  for  your  money,  even  if  it's  a  little 
bit." 

"  Hold  on  a  minute,"  says  he  after  a  while  and  pulls 
a  card  out  of  his  pocket.  "  Take  this  in  to  your  presi- 
dent and  tell  him  I  want  to  see  him." 

That  made  the  man  with  the  little  whiskers  get  right 
pale.  His  mouth  got  round  like  that  of  a  sucker 
fish. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  says  he. 

23 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


"  Nothing  much,"  says  Old  Man  Wright.  "  I  may 
have  overlooked  a  few  things.  I  was  wrong  about 
that  three  hundred  dollars." 

He  flattens  out  on  the  table  a  mussed-up  piece  of 
paper  he  found  in  his  side  pocket. 

"It  wasn't  three  hundred  dollars  at  all,  but  three 
hundred  thousand  dollars,"  says  he.  "  I  forgot.  Go 
ask  your  president  if  he'll  please  let  me  open  a  account, 
especial  since  I  bought  four  thousand  shares  in  this 
bank  the  other  day  when  I  was  absent-minded  —  my 
banker  out  in  Cheyenne  told  me  to  do  it.  You  can 
see  why  I  come  in,  then  —  I  wanted  to  see  how  the 
hands  in  this  business  was  carrying  it  on,  me  being  a 
stockholder.  Now  run  along,  son,"  says  he,  "  and 
bring  the  president  out  here,  because  I'm  busy  and  I 
ain't  got  long  to  wait." 

And  blame  me  if  the  president  didn't  come  out,  too, 
after  a  while!  He  was  a  little  man,  yet  looked  like 
he'd  just  got  his  suit  of  clothes  from  the  tailor  that 
morning,  and  his  necktie  too  —  white  and  rather  soft- 
looking;  not  very  tall,  but  wide,  with  no  whiskers. 
I  didn't  have  no  use  for  him  at  all. 

The  president  he  came  smiling,  with  both  his  hands 
out.  He  certainly  was  a  glad-hand  artist,  which  is 
what  a  bank  president  has  to  be  today  —  he's  got  to 
be  a  speaker  and  a  handshaker.  The  rest  don't  count 
so  much. 

24 


WHERE  WE  THREW  IN 

He  taken  us  into  his  own  room.  I  never  had  knowed 
that  chairs  growed  so  large  before  or  any  table  so 
long ;  but  we  set  down.  That  president  certainly  knew 
good  cigars. 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Wright,"  says  he,  "  I'm  profoundly 
glad  that  you  have  at  last  came  in  to  see  us.  I  knew 
of  your  purchase  in  our  institution  and  we  value  your 
association  beyond  words.  With  the  extent  of  your 
holdings  —  which  perhaps  you  will  increase  —  you 
clearly  will  be  entitled  to  a  place  on  our  board  of  di- 
rectors. I'm  a  Western  man  myself  —  I  came  from 
Moline,  Illinoy;  and  perhaps  it  will  not  be  too  much 
if  I  ask  you  to  let  me  have  your  proxy,  just  as  a  mat- 
ter of  form."  He  talks  like  a  book. 

We  had  some  more  conversation,  and  when  we  went 
out  all  the  case  keepers  stood  up  and  bowed,  one  after 
the  other.  We  didn't  seem  to  have  no  trouble  open- 
ing a  account  after  that. 

"  The  stock  in  this  bank's  too  low,"  says  Old  Man 
Wright  to  me  on  the  side.  "  That's  why  I  bought  it. 
They're  going  to  put  it  up  after  a  while ;  and  when  they 
start  to  put  things  up  they  put  'em  farther  when  you 
begin  on  the  ground  floor.  Do  you  see?  " 

I  begun  to  think  maybe  Old  Man  Wright  was  some- 
thing more  than  a  cowman,  but  I  didn't  say  nothing. 
We  went  back  to  the  hotel  and  he  calls  in  Bonnie  Bell 
to  our  room. 

25 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


"  Look  at  me,  sis,"  says  he.  "  Is  they  anything 
wrong  with  me  ?  " 

She  sits  down  on  his  knee  and  pushes  back  his  hair. 

"  Why,  you  old  dear,"  says  she,  "of  course  they 
ain't." 

"  Is  they  anything  wrong  with  my  clothes  or 
Curly's  ?  "  he  says. 

"  Well  now "  she  begins. 

"  That  settles  it! "  says  he;  and  that  afternoon  him 
and  me  went  down  to  a  tailor. 

What  he  done  to  each  of  us  was  several  suits  of 
clothes.  Old  Man  Wright  said  he  wanted  one  suit 
each  of  every  kind  of  clothes  that  anybody  ever  had 
been  knew  to  wear  in  the  history  of  the  world.  I  was 
more  moderate.  I  never  was  in  a  spiketail  in  my  whole 
life  and  I  told  him  I'd  die  first.  Still,  I  could  see  I 
was  going  to  be  made  over  considerable. 

As  for  Bonnie  Bell,  when  she  went  down  the  avenue, 
where  the  wind  blows  mostly  all  the  time,  she  looked 
like  she'd  lived  there  in  the  city  all  her  life.  She  al- 
ways had  a  good  color  in  her  cheeks  from  living  out- 
of-doors  and  riding  so  much,  and  she  was  right  limber 
and  sort  of  thin.  Her  hat  was  sort  of  little  and  put 
some  on  one  side.  Her  shoes  was  part  white  and  part 
black,  the  way  they  wore  'em  then,  and  her  stockings 
was  the  color  of  her  dress;  and  her  dress  was  right  in 
line,  like  the  things  you  saw  along  in  the  store  windows 

26 


WHERE  WE  THREW  IN 

It  was  winter  when  we  hit  Chicago  and  she  wore 
furs  —  dark  ones  —  and  her  muff  was  shore  stylish. 
When  she  put  it  up  to  the  side  of  her  face  to  keep  off 
the  wind  she  was  so  easy  to  look  at  that  a  good  many 
people  would  turn  round  and  look  at  her.  I  don't 
know  what  folks  thought  of  her  pa  and  me,  but  Bonnie 
Bell  didn't  look  like  she'd  come  from  Wyoming.  Once 
two  young  fellows  followed  her  clear  to  the  door  of 
the  hotel,  where  they  met  me.  They  went  away  right 
soon  after  that. 

Bonnie  Bell  just  moved  into  Chicago  like  it  was  easy 
for  her.  As  for  Old  Man  Wright,  about  all  him  and 
me  could  do  was  to  go  down  to  the  stockyards  and  see 
where  the  beef  was  coming  from.  We  looked  for 
some  of  our  brand,  and  when  he  seen  some  of  the 
Circle  Arrow  cows  come  in  he  wouldn't  hardly  talk  to 
anybody  for  two  or  three  days. 

I  never  did  see  where  Bonnie  Bell's  new  house  was, 
because  she  said  it  was  a  secret  from  me.  Her  pa 
told  me  that  he  paid  round  two  hundred  and  twenty- 
five  thousand  dollars  for  the  land,  without  no  house 
on  it. 

"  Why,  at  that,"  says  I,  "  you'll  be  putting  up  a 
house  there  that'll  cost  over  six  thousand  dollars,  like 
enough ! " 

Bonnie  Bell  hears  me  and  says  she  : 

"  I  shouldn't  wonder  a  bit  if  it  would  cost  even  more 

27 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


than  that.     Anybody  that  is  somebody  has  to  have  3 
good  house,  here  in  Chicago." 

"Are  we  somebody,  sis?"  says  Old  Man  Wright, 
sudden. 

"  Dear  old  dad ! "  says  she,  and  she  kisses  him  some 
more.  "  We'll  be  somebody  before  we  quit  this  game 
• —  believe  me !  " 

"  Curly,"  says  the  old  man  to  me  soon  after,  "  that 
girl's  got  looks  —  Lord !  I  didn't  know  it  till  I  seen 
her  all  dressed  up  the  way  she  is  here.  She's  got  class 
—  I  don't  know  where  she  got  it,  but  she  has.  She's 
got  brains  —  Lord  knows  where  she  got  them ;  certain 
not  from  me.  She's  got  sand  too  —  you  can't  stop 
her  noways  on  earth.  If  she  starts  she's  going 
through.  And  she  says  she  only  come  here  because 
she  knew  I  wanted  to !  "  says  he. 

"  What's  the  difference  ?  "  I  ast  him.  "  We  fooled 
her,  didn't  we?" 

"  Maybe,"  says  he.     "  I  ain't  shore." 

Well,  anyway,  this  is  what  we'd  swapped  the  old 
days  out  on  the  Yellow  Bull  for.  We'd  done  traded 
the  mountains  and  the  valley  and  the  things  we  knew 
for  this  three  or  four  rooms  at  several  hundred 
dollars  a  month  in  a  hotel  that  looked  out  over  the 
water,  and  over  a  lot  of  people  on  the  keen  lope,  not 
one  of  them  caring  a  damn  for  us  —  leastways  not  for 
her  pa  or  me. 

28 


Ill 

US   LIVING   IN    TOWN 

I  NEVER  had  lived  in  town  this  long,  not  in  all 
my  life  before,  and,  far  as  I  know,  the  boss 
hadn't,  neither.  We  wasn't  used  to  this  way 
of  living.  We'd  been  used  to  riding  some  every  day. 
Out  in  the  parks,  even  in  the  winter,  once  in  a  while 
you  could  see  somebody  riding  —  or  thinking  they 
was  riding,  which  they  wasn't. 

One  day  Old  Man  Wright,  come  spring,  he  goes 
down  to  the  stockyards  and  buys  a  good  saddle  horse 
for  Bonnie  Bell  to  ride.  It  cost  him  twenty-five  dol- 
lars a  month  to  keep  that  horse,  so  he  would  eat  his 
head  off  in  about  three  months  at  the  outside.  Old 
Man  Wright  tells  me  that  I'll  have  to  ride  out  with 
the  kid  whenever  she  wanted  to  go.  That  suited  me. 
Of  course  that  meant  we  had  to  buy  another  horse  for 
me.  That  made  the  stable  bill  fifty  dollars  a  month. 
I  never  did  know  what  we  paid  for  our  rooms  at  the 
hotel,  but  it  was  more  every  month  than  would  keep 
a  family  a  year  in  Wyoming. 

Bonnie  Bell  she  could  ride  a  man's  saddle  all  right, 
and  she  had  a  outfit  for  it.  When  it  got  a  little 

29 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


warmer  in  the  spring  we  used  to  go  in  the  parks  every 
once  in  a  while.  One  day  we  rid  on  out  into  a  narrow 
sort  of  place  along  the  lake.  There  was  houses  there 
—  a  row  of  them,  all  big,  all  of  stone  or  brick;  houses 
as  big  as  the  penitentiary  in  Wyoming  and  about  as 
cheerful. 

We  stopped  right  in  front  of  a  big  brick-and-stone 
house,  which  had  trees  and  flower  beds  and  hedges  all 
along;  and  says  she: 

"  Curly,  how  would  you  like  to  live  in  a  house  like 
that?" 

"  I  wouldn't  live  in  the  damn  place  if  you  give  it  to 
me,  Bonnie  Bell,"  says  I,  cheerful. 

She  looked  at  me  kind  of  funny. 

"  That's  the  kind  of  a  house  the  best  people  have 
in  this  town,"  says  she.  "  For  instance,  that  house 
we're  looking  at  looks  as  though  the  best  architects 
in  town  had  designed  it.  That  place,  Curly,  cost  any- 
where from  a  half  to  three-quarters  of  a  million,  I'll 
betcha." 

"  Well,  that's  a  heap  more  money  than  anybody 
ought  to  pay  for  a  place  to  live  in,"  says  I.  "  They 
ought  to  spend  it  for  cows." 

"  But  it  fronts  the  lake,"  says  she,  "  and  it's  right  in 
with  the  best  people." 

"Is  that  so?"  says  I.  "Then  here  is  where  we 
ought  to  of  come  —  some  place  like  that;  for  what 

30 


US  LIVING  IN  TOWN 


we're  here  for  is  to  break  in  with  the  best  people. 
Ain't  that  the  truth,  Bonnie  Bell  ?  " 

"  Maybe,"  says  she  after  a  while  — "  bankers,  I  sup- 
pose, merchants,  wholesale  people  —  hides,  leather, 
packing " 

"  And  not  cowmen  ?  "  says  I. 

"  Certainly  not !  "  says  she.  "  To  be  the  best  people 
you  must  deal  in  something  that  somebody  else  has 
worked  on  —  you  must  handle  a  manufactured  product 
of  some  kind.  You  mustn't  be  a  producer  of  actual 
wealth." 

"Sho!  Bonnie  Bell,"  says  I,  "if  you're  in  earnest 
you're  talking  something  you  learned  at  Old  Man 
Smith's  college.  I  don't  know  nothing  about  them 
things.  Folks  is  folks,  ain't  they?  A  square  man  is 
a  square  man,  no  matter  what's  his  business." 

"  It's  different  here,"  says  she. 

"  Well,  now,  while  we're  speaking  about  houses," 
says  I,  us  setting  there  on  our  horses  all  the  time  and 
plenty  of  people  going  by  and  looking  at  us  —  or  least- 
ways looking  at  her  — "  why  don't  you  tell  me  where 
your  house  is  going  to  be  at?  You  never  did  show  it 
to  me  once." 

"  I'm  not  going  to,  Curly,"  says  she.  "  That's  go- 
ing to  be  a  secret.  Of  course  dad  knows  where  it  is ; 
but  as  for  you  —  well,  maybe  we  will  get  into  it  by 
Christmas." 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


"  Now,  for  instance,"  says  I  —  and  I  waves  my 
hand  toward  a  place  that  was  just  starting  alongside 
this  big  house  we'd  been  looking  at  — "  it  like  enough 
taken  a  year  or  so  to  get  this  here  place  as  far  along 
as  it  is." 

"Uh-huh!"  says  she. 

So  then  we  turned  away  and  rid  back  home.  When 
we  got  back  to  the  hotel  we  found  Old  Man  Wright 
setting  in  a  chair,  with  his  legs  stuck  out  and  his  hands 
in  his  pockets,  looking  plumb  unhappy. 

"What's  the  matter,  dad?"  ast  Bonnie  Bell. 
"  Have  you  lost  any  money  or  heard  any  bad  news?  " 

"  No,  I  ain't,"  says  he.  "  It  all  depends  on  what 
people  need  to  make  them  happy." 

"  Well,"  says  Bonnie  Bell  —  her  face  was  right  red 
from  the  ride  we  had  and  she  was  feeling  fine  — "  I'm 
perfectly  happy,  except  there  ain't  any  place  you  can 
ride  a  horse  in  this  town  and  have  any  fun  at  it,  the 
roads  are  so  hard.  Everybody  seems  to  go  in  motor 
cars  nowadays,  anyways." 

"Huh!"  says  her  pa.  "That's  what  I  should 
think."  He  holds  up  a  newspaper  in  front  of  him. 
"  When  I  first  come  here,"  says  he,  "  I  seen  that  every- 
body was  riding  in  cars,  and  I  figured  that  more  of 
them  was  going  to;  so  I  taken  a  flyer,  sixty  thousand 
dollars  or  so,  in  some  stock  in  a  company  that  was 
making  one  of  them  cars  that  sells  right  cheap.  Now 

32 


US  LIVING  IN  TOWN 


them  people  have  gave  me  eighty  per  cent  stock  for  a 
bonus  and  raised  the  dividend  to  twenty-five  per  cent 
a  year.  She's  going  to  make  money  all  right. 
Shouldn't  wonder  if  that  stock  would  more  than  double 
in  a  year  or  so." 

"  For  heaven's  sake,  Colonel,"  says  I,  "  ain't  there 
nothing  a-tall  that  you  can  get  into  without  making 
money  ?  "  says  I. 

"  No,  there  ain't,"  says  he,  sad.  "  It  happens  that 
way  with  some  folks  —  I  just  can't  help  making  it; 
yet  here  I  am  with  more  money  than  any  of  us  ought 
to  have.  But  I  had  to  do  it,"  says  he  to  Bonnie  Bell. 
"  I  get  sort  of  lonesome,  not  having  much  to  do;  so 
that  I  have  to  mix  up  with  something.  Cars,  sis?" 
says  he.  "  Why,  let  me  give  you  two  or  three  of  the 
kind  our  company  makes." 

"  No  you  don't !  "  says  Bonnie  Bell.  "  I  want  one 
that " 

"  Huh !  that  costs  about  eight  or  ten  thousand  dol- 
lars, maybe  ?  " 

"  Well,"  says  she,  "  you  have  to  sort  of  play  things 
proportionate,  dad;  and  I  think  that  kind  of  a  car  is 
just  about  proportionate  to  what  you  and  me  is  going 
to  do  in  this  little  town  when  we  get  started." 

She  turns  and  looks  out  the  window  some  more. 
That  was  a  way  she  had.     You  see,  all  these  months » 
we'd  been  there  already  we  didn't  know  a  soul  in  that 

33 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


town.  Womenfolks  always  hate  each  other,  but  they 
hate  theirselves  when  other  womenfolks  don't  pay  no 
attention  to  them.  Bonnie  Bell  was  used  to  neighbors 
and  she  didn't  have  none  here;  so,  though  she  was 
busy  buying  everything  a  girl  couldn't  possibly  want, 
she  didn't  seem  none  too  happy  now. 

"What's  wrong,  sis?"  says  her  pa  after  a  while, 
pulling  her  over  on  his  knee.  "Ain't  me  and  Curly 
treating  you  all  right  ?  " 

She  pushed  back  his  face  from  her  and  looks  at 
him;  and  says  she,  right  sober: 

"  Dad,"  she  says,  "  you  mustn't  ever  really  ask  me 
that.  You're  the  best  man  in  all  the  world  —  and  so 
is  Curly." 

"  No,  we  ain't,"  says  he.  "  The  best  man  hasn't 
really  showed  yet  for  you,  sis." 

"  Why,  dad,"  says  she,  "  I'm  only  a  young  girl !  " 

"  You're  the  finest-looking  young  girl  in  this  town," 
says  he,  "  and  the  town  knows  it." 

"  Huh ! "  says  she,  and  sniffs  up  her  nose.  "  It 
don't  act  much  like  it." 

"If  I  can  believe  my  eyes,"  says  her  pa,  "when  I 
walk  out  with  you  a  good  many  people  seem  to 
know  it." 

"  That  don't  count,  dad,"  says  she.  "  Men,  and 
even  women,  look  at  a  girl  on  the  street  —  men  at  her 
ankles  and  women  at  her  clothes;  but  that  doesn't 

34 


US  LIVING  IN  TOWN 


mean  anything.  That  doesn't  get  you  anywhere. 
That  isn't  being  anybody.  That  doesn't  mean  that 
you  are  one  of  the  best  people." 

"  And  you  want  to  be  one  of  the  best  people  —  is 
that  it,  sis  ?  " 

She  set  her  teeth  together  and  her  eyes  got  bright. 

"  Well,"  says  she,  "  we  never  played  anything  for 
pikers,  did  we,  dad?  " 

Then  them  two  looked  each  other  in  the  eyes.  I 
looked  at  them  both.  To  me  it  seemed  there  certainly 
was  going  to  be  some  doings. 

"  Go  to  it,  sis !  "  says  her  pa.  "  You've  got  your 
own  bank  account  and  it's  bigger  than  mine.  The 
limit's  the  roof. 

"  Speaking  of  limits,"  says  he,  "  reminds  me  that 
the  president  of  our  bank  he  got  me  elected  to  the  Na- 
tional League  Club  here  in  town;  him  having  such  a 
pull  he  done  it  right  soon  —  proxies,  maybe.  I've  been 
over  there  this  afternoon  trying  to  enjoy  myself. 
Didn't  know  anybody  on  earth.  One  or  two  folks 
finally  did  allow  me  to  set  in  a  poker  game  with  them 
when  I  ast.  It  wasn't  poker,  but  only  a  imitation.  I 
won  two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  and  it  broke  up 
the  game.  If  a  fellow  pushes  in  half  a  stack  of  blues 
over  there  they  all  tremble  and  get  pale.  This  may  be 
a  good  town  for  women,  but,  believe  me,  sis,  it's  no 
town  for  a  real  man." 

35 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


"Well,  never  mind,  dad,"  says  she.  "If  you  get 
lonesome  I'll  have  you  help  me  on  the  house.  We'll 
have  to  get  our  servants  together.  For  instance,  we've 
got  to  have  a  butler  —  and  a  good  one." 

"What's  a  butler?"  says  I. 

"  He  stands  back  of  your  chair  and  makes  you  feel 
creepy,"  says  Old  Man  Wright.  "  We've  got  to  have 
one  of  them  things,  shore.  Then  there's  the  chauffore 
for  the  car  when  you  get  it,  and  the  cook.  That's 
about  all,  ain't  it?" 

"  That's  about  the  beginning,"  says  Bonnie  Bell. 
"  You  have  to  have  a  cook  and  a  kitchen  girl  and  two 
first-floor  maids  and  two  upper-floor  maids  and  a  foot- 
man." 

"  Well,  that  will  help  some,"  says  her  pa.  "  I've 
been  bored  a  good  deal  and  lonesome,  but  maybe,  liv- 
ing with  all  them  folks,  somebody  will  start  something 
sometime.  When  did  you  say  we  could  get  in  ?  " 

"  They  tell  me  we'll  be  lucky  if  we  have  everything 
ready  by  Christmas,"  says  Bonnie  Bell. 

"  It  looks  like  a  merry  summer,  don't  it?  "  says  he 
sighing. 

"  And  like  a  hell  of  a  Merry  Christmas!  "  says  I. 


IV 

US  AND   CHRISTMAS   EVE 

HOW  we  spent  all  that  spring  and  summer  I 
don't  hardly  see  now.  We  was  the  lone- 
somest  people  you  ever  seen.  Old  Man 
Wright  he'd  go  over  to  his  new  club  once  in  a  while 
and  sometimes  out  to  the  stockyards,  and  sometimes 
he'd  fuss  round  at  this  or  that.  Bonnie  Bell  and  me 
we'd  go  riding  once  in  a  while  when  she  wasn't  busy, 
which  was  most  of  the  time  now.  She  had  a  lot  of 
talking  to  do  with  the  folks  that  was  building  her  house 
and  furnishing  it  —  she  never  would  tell  me  where  it 
was. 

Well,  it  got  cold  right  early  in  the  winter.  It  was 
awful  cold,  colder  than  it  gets  in  Wyoming.  When 
it  gets  cold  in  Chicago  the  folks  say :  "  This  certainly 
is  most  unusual  weather!" — just  like  we  do  when 
there  is  a  blizzard  out  in  Wyoming.  Old  Man  Wright 
and  me  we  thought  we'd  freeze,  because,  you  see,  we 
had  to  wear  overcoats  like  they  had  in  the  city,  and 
couldn't  wear  no  sheep-lined  coats  like  we  would  have 
wore  on  the  range. 

"  Well,  you  see,"  said  Bonnie  Bell  when  we  com- 

37. 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 

plained  to  her,  "  when  we  get  our  motor  car  running 
we  won't  have  to  walk.  Nobody  that  amounts  to  any- 
thing walks  in  the  city.  Our  best  people  all  have  cars ; 
so  they  don't  need  sheepskin  coats.  Our  car  will  be 
here  any  time  now;  so  we  can  see  more  of  the  city 
and  be  more  comfortable  than  you  can  on  horseback. 
Nobody  rides  horseback  except  a  few  young  people  in 
the  parks  in  the  summertime  —  I  found  that  out." 

"  Don't  our  best  people  do  that  now  ? "  ast  her  pa. 

"  Some,  but  not  many,"  says  she.  "  There's  a  good 
many  people  that  wants  you  to  think  they're  the  best 
people;  but  they  ain't.  You  can  always  tell  them  by 
the  way  they  play  their  hands.  Most  of  the  people 
I've  seen  riding  in  the  parks  is  that  sort  —  they  want 
you  to  look  at  them  when  they  ride  because  they're 
perfectly  sure  they're  doing  what  our  best  people  are 
doing.  You  can  tell  'em  by  their  clothes,  whether  they 
are  riding  or  walking.  It's  easy  to  spot  them  out." 

"  I  wonder,"  says  I,  "if  they  can  spot  out  your  pa 
and  me? " 

She  comes  over  and  rumples  up  my  hair  like  she 
sometimes  did. 

"  You're  a  dear,  Curly!  "  says  she. 

"  I  know  that,"  says  I ;  "  but  don't  muss  up  my  new 
necktie,  for  I  worked  about  a  hour  on  that  this  morn- 
ing, and  at  that  it's  a  little  on  one  side  and  some  low. 
But  I'm  coming  on,"  says  I. 

38 


US  AND  CHRISTMAS  EVE 

Now,  Old  Man  Wright,  when  he  wore  his  spiketail 
coat,  he  had  the  same  trouble  with  his  tie  that  I  had 
with  mine.  He  told  his  tailor  about  that  one  time,  but 
his  tailor  told  him  that  the  best  people  wore  them  that 
way  —  mussed  up  and  careless.  Natural  like  it  was 
a  hard  game  to  play,  because  how  could  you  tell  when 
to  be  careless  and  when  not  to  be  ?  But,  as  I  said,  we 
was  coming  on. 

Mr.  Henderson  —  he  was  the  hotel  manager  and  a 
pretty  good  sport  too  —  he  sort  of  struck  up  a  friend- 
ship with  Old  Man  Wright,  and  you  couldn't  hardly 
say  we  didn't  have  no  visitors,  for  he  come  in  every 
once  in  a  while  and  was  right  nice  to  us.  You  see, 
what  with  Old  Man  Wright  wearing  his  necktie  care- 
less and  Bonnie  Bell  dressing  exactly  like  she  come  out 
of  a  fashion  paper,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  me  our  outfit 
might  of  got  by  for  being  best  people,  all  right.  Like 
enough  I  queered  the  game  some;  but  Henderson  he 
didn't  seem  to  mind  even  me. 

The  day  before  Christmas  Bonnie  Bell  said  her  new 
house  was  all  done  and  all  furnished,  everything  in, 
servants  and  all,  ready  for  us  to  move  in  that  very 
night  and  spend  Christmas  Eve  there.  But  she  says 
Mr.  Henderson,  the  manager  of  the  hotel,  wanted  us 
to  eat  our  last  dinner  that  night  in  the  hotel  before  we 
went  home.  To  oblige  him  we  done  so. 

He  taken  us  in  hisself  that  night.  The  man  at  the 

39 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


door  snatched  our  hats  away,  but  he  taken  Bonnie 
Bell's  coat  —  fur-lined  it  was  and  cost  a  couple  of 
thousand  dollars —  over  his  arm,  and  he  held  back 
the  chair  for  her.  There  was  flowers  on  the  table 
a  plenty.  I  reckon  he  fixed  it  up.  There  wasn't  no 
ham  shank  and  greens,  but  there  was  everything  else. 

I  shouldn't  wonder  if  some  of  the  best  people  was 
there.  Everybody  had  on  the  kind  of  clothes  they 
wear  in  the  evening  in  a  town  like  this  —  spiketails 
for  the  men,  and  silk  things,  low,  for  the  womenfolks. 
Old  Man  Wright,  with  his  red  moustache,  a  little  gray, 
him  tall,  but  not  fat,  and  his  necktie  a  little  mussed  up, 
was  just  as  good-looking  a  man  as  was  in  the  place. 

As  for  Bonnie  Bell  —  well,  I  looked  at  our  girl  aa 
I  set  there  in  my  own  best  clothes  and  my  necktie  tied 
the  best  I  knew  how,  and,  honest,  she  was  so  pretty 
I  was  scared.  The  fact  is,  pretty  ain't  just  the  word. 
She  was  more  than  that  —  she  was  beautiful. 

Her  dress  was  some  sort  of  soft  green  silk,  I  reckon, 
cut  low,  and  her  neck  was  high  and  white,  and  her  hair 
was  done  up  high  behind  and  tied  up  somehow,  and  her 
chin  was  held  up  high.  She  had  some  color  in  her 
face  —  honest  color  —  and  her  eyes  was  big  and 
bright.  Her  arms  was  bare  up  above  where  her  gloves 
come  to.  She  didn't  have  on  very  many  rings  — 
though,  Lord!  if  she  wanted  them  she  could  of  had  a 
bushel.  She  didn't  have  on  much  jewelry  nowhere; 

40 


US  AND  CHRISTMAS  EVE 

but  I  want  to  tell  you  everybody  in  that  room  looked 
at  her  all  they  dared. 

I  looked  at  her  and  so  did  her  pa.  I  don't  know 
as  you  could  say  we  both  was  proud  —  that  ain't  the 
right  word  for  it.  We  was  both  scared.  It  didn't 
seem  possible  she  could  be  ours.  It  didn't  seem  pos- 
sible that  us  two  old  cowmen  had  raised  her  that  way 
out  on  the  range  and  that  she  had  changed  so  soon. 
She  must  of  had  it  in  her  —  her  ma,  I  reckon. 

There  was  a  table  not  very  far  from  ours,  just 
across  the  first  window,  where  there  was  a  old  man 
and  a  old  woman  and  a  young  man.  They  seen  us 
all  right.  I  seen  the  young  man  looking  at  Bonnie 
Bell  two  or  three  times,  always  looking  down  when 
he  seen  I  noticed.  He  was  a  good-looking  young  man 
and  dressed  well,  I  suppose,  for  all  the  men  was  dressed 
alike.  His  necktie  was  tied  kind  of  mussy  and  care- 
less, like  Old  Man  Wright's,  and  he  didn't  have  to 
keep  pushing  at  his  shirt.  Did  Bonnie  Bell  notice 
him?  Maybe  she  did  —  you  can't  tell  about  women- 
folks; their  eyes  is  set  on  like  a  antelope's  and  they 
can  see  behind  theirself. 

"That's  Old  Man  Wisner,"  says  Henderson,  the 
hotel  manager,  quiet,  to  us,  leaning  over  and  pretend- 
ing like  he  was  fixing  our  flowers  some  more.  "  Mrs. 
Wisner  and  young  Mr.  James  Wisner  are  with  him. 
You  know,  he  is  one  of  the  richest  men  here  in  Chi' 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


cago  —  packing  and  banking,  and  all  that  sort  of 
thing.  They  are  among  our  best  people.  They  live 
up  in  Millionaire  Row." 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  says  Bonnie  Bell. 

From  where  I  set  I  could  see  them  Wisners  over 
at  the  other  table.  The  old  man  was  big,  with  gray 
whiskers  and  gray  hair,  rather  coarse.  He  had  big 
eyebrows  and  his  eyes  was  kind  of  cross-looking,  like 
his  stomach  wasn't  right.  He  was  a  portly  sort  of 
man  —  you've  seen  that  kind.  Some  is  bankers  and 
some  packers  and  some  brewers;  they  all  look  alike, 
no  matter  what  they  are.  They  can't  ride  or  walk. 

This  old  party  he  didn't  seem  to  be  paying  much 
attention  to  his  wife,  and  I  don't  know  as  I  blame  him. 
She  may  have  had  some  looks  once,  but  not  recent. 
They  wasn't  happy. 

After  a  while  the  folks  at  that  table  got  up  and 
went  on  out  before  we  was  done  with  our  dinner,  which 
was  going  strong  at  the  end  of  a  couple  of  hours  — 
there  wasn't  anything  in  the  whole  wide  world  we 
didn't  have  to  eat  except  ham  shank  and  greens.  At 
that,  we  had  a  right  good  time. 

By  and  by  it  got  to  be  maybe  eleven  o'clock,  and 
Bonnie  Bell  turns  down  her  long  white  gloves,  which 
she  had  tucked  the  hands  of  them  back  into  the  wrists. 

"  Shall  I  call  your  car,  Mr.  Wright  ?  "  ast  the  man- 
ager, Mr.  Henderson. 

42 


US  AND  CHRISTMAS  EVE 

"  I  don't  know,"  says  Old  Man  Wright.  "  Have 
we  got  a  car,  sis  ?  " 

"Yes,  papa,"  says  she  —  she  mostly  said  "papa" 
when  folks  was  round ;  don't  overlook  it  that  Old  Man 
Smith  turned  out  girls  with  real  class.  She  didn't  talk 
like  her  pa  and  me  neither. 

"  Yes,  papa,"  says  she  now.  "  I  was  going  to  sur- 
prise you  about  our  car ;  it's  been  on  hand  for  a  week. 
I  employed  a  driver  and  told  him  to  be  ready  for  us 
about  now."  You  see  all  our  things  had  gone  out  to 
the  new  house. 

We  all  three  of  us  helped  Bonnie  Bell  on  with  her 
coat.  She  picked  up  her  muff  and  we  all  went  out. 
I  don't  think  any  man  in  the  place  that  had  brass  but- 
tons forgot  that  Christmas  Eve. 

The  tall  man  in  front  at  the  door,  like  a  drum 
major  in  a  band,  he  knew  us  well  enough  by  now ;  he 
opens  the  door  for  us  and  we  stand  there,  looking  out. 

I  said  it  was  cold  in  Chicago  and  it  was  shore  cold 
that  night.  It  was  snowing  —  snow  coming  in  off  the 
lake  slantwise,  like  a  blizzard  on  the  plains.  You 
couldn't  hardly  see  across  the  walk.  Out  beyond  the 
awning,  which  covered  the  sidewalk,  we  could  see  our 
new  car  —  a  long,  shiny  one  with  lights  inside  and 
lamps  all  over  it,  red,  white  and  blue,  or  maybe  green. 
There  was  a  couple  of  men  on  the  front  seat  outside  — 
I  don't  know  when  the  kid  had  hired  them.  They 

43 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


was  both  wrapped  up  in  big  fur  overcoats,  which  they 
certainly  did  need  that  night,  since  they  couldn't  ride 
in  the  e-limousine,  like  us. 

Bonnie  Bell  walks  across  the  sidewalk  now,  under 
the  awning,  with  her  muff  up  against  her  face,  bending 
over  against  the  storm.  She  looks  up,  after  she  has 
said  good-by  to  Mr.  Henderson,  who  run  out  with  us, 
laughing  and  saying  "Merry  Christmas!" — she  just 
looks  up  at  the  man  on  the  seat,  and  says  she: 
"  Home,  James !  " 

I  reckon  the  man  must  of  been  new  that  she  had 
hired.  He  looks  round  at  first,  as  if  he  was  trying 
to  read  our  brand.  Then  all  at  once,  sudden,  he  jumps 
down  offen  the  seat,  touches  his  cap  and  opens  the 
door. 

We  all  got  in  and  said  good-by  to  the  hotel  where 
we'd  been  living  so  long.  The  chauffore  touches  his 
hat  again,  shuts  the  door  and  climbs  back  in  his  seat. 
He  turned  that  long  car  round  in  one  motion  in  the 
street.  The  next  minute  we  was  out  on  the  avenue, 
away  from  the  hotel,  and  right  in  the  middle  of  that 
row  of  lights  several  miles  long,  where  the  bullyvard 
is  at,  along  the  lake  there.  He  turns  her  north  on 
the  bullyvard,  without  a  skip  or  a  bobble,  and  she  runs 
smooth  as  grease.  I  seen  Bonnie  Bell  was  certainly  a 
good  judge  of  a  car,  like  she  was  of  a  horse  or  any» 
thing  else. 

44 


US  AND  CHRISTMAS  EVE 

"  Daughter,"  says  Old  Man  Wright  to  her  after  a 
time  —  and  he  didn't  usual  call  her  that  — "  you're  a 
wonder  to  your  dad  tonight!  Where  did  you  get  it? 
Where  did  you  learn  it  ?  " 

She  looks  up  at  him  quick  from  her  muff,  plumb 
serious,  and  just  put  out  her  hand  on  his,  in  its  white 
glove. 

We  moved  right  along  up  the  avenue,  along  a  little 
•crooked  street  or  so,  round  a  corner  and  over  the 
bridge ;  and  then  we  come  out  where  the  lights  was  in 
a  long  row  again,  and  we  could  hear  the  roar  of  the 
lake  right  close  to  the  road. 

"  Where  are  you  taking  us,  kid  ?  "  says  I  after  a 
while,  seeing  that  her  pa  wasn't  going  to  say  nothing 
nohow. 

She  only  smiled. 

"  Wait,  Curly ;  you'll  see  the  new  ranch  house  be- 
fore so  very  long." 

By  and  by  we  was  right  at  the  lower  end  of  that 
long  row  of  big  houses  that  cost  so  much  money, 
where  the  best  people  live  —  Millionaire  Row,  they 
called  it  then. 

I  knew  where  we  was.  After  a  while  we  come  right 
to  the  place  where  Bonnie  Bell  and  me  once  had  set 
on  our  horses  and  looked  out  at  a  new  house  that 
wasn't  finished,  but  was  just  beginning.  It  was  done 
how  —  all  complete,  from  top  to  bottom,  right  where 

45 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


the  foundations  had  been  last  spring!  I  could  see 
where  the  walks  was  laid  out  and  some  trees  had  been 
planted  that  fall  —  big  ones,  as  though  they  had  al- 
ways growed  there.  Here  and  there  was  statues, 
women  mostly  and  looking  cold  that  night. 

On  behind  you  could  see  the  line  of  the  low  build- 
ings, like  the  outlying  barns  of  the  home  ranch  on  the 
Yellow  Bull;  but  this  house  stood  there  just  inside, 
where  the  lake  come  in  rolling  and  roaring,  and  fronted 
right  on  this  avenue,  where  our  best  people  lived.  It 
was  stone,  three  stories  or  more,  maybe,  with  a  place 
for  buckboards  to  drive  under  and  a  stone  porch  over 
the  front  door,  and  a  walk  and  steps.  And  it  was  all 
lit  up  from  top  to  bottom ;  all  the  windows  was  bright. 

We  wasn't  cold  or  wet  or  tired,  us  three,  but  we 
wasn't  feeling  good  —  not  one  of  us.  Now  when  we 
stopped  there  for  some  reason  and  looked  at  all  them 
red  lights  shining,  I  sort  of  felt  a  wish  that  I  could 
see  a  light  shining  in  some  home  ranch  once  more,  like 
I  had  so  often  out  on  the  Yellow  Bull.  I  set  there 
looking  at  that  place,  all  lit  up  for  somebody,  all  wait- 
ing for  somebody;  and  for  a  time  I  forgot  where  I 
was  —  forgot  even  that  the  car  had  stopped. 

I  turns  round ;  and  there  was  Bonnie  Bell  pulling  her 
coat  up  round  her  neck  and  fixing  her  hands  in  her 
muff,  and  her  pa  was  buttoning  up  his  coat.  Just 
then,  too,  I  seen  the  chauffore  jump  down  off  en  the 

46 


US  AND  CHRISTMAS  EVE 

front  seat.  He  comes  round  to  the  door,  right  where 
the  walk  was  that  led  up  to  this  new  big  house,  and  he 
opens  the  door  and  touches  his  hat,  and  stands  there, 
waiting. 

What  with  their  laughing  and  pulling  at  me,  and  me 
sort  of  hanging  back,  we  kind  of  forgot  it  was  Christ- 
mas Eve.  Old  Man  Wright  thought  of  it,  sudden; 
and  he  turns  back  to  the  man,  who  still  stood  at  the 
door  looking  after  Bonnie  Bell  and  us  as  though  we'd 
forgot  something.  He  puts  his  hand  in  his  waistcoat 
pocket  and  hauls  out  a  ten-dollar  gold  piece,  and  puts 
it  into  the  hand  of  this  new  chauffore  of  ours. 

"  Here  you  go,  son,"  says  he.  "  Meirry  Christ- 
mas! And  I  hope  you'll  take  good  care  of  my 
daughter." 

The  new  chauffore,  standing  there  in  the  snow  — 
he  was  tall  and  a  right  good-looking  chap  too  —  he 
touches  his  cap. 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  says  he. 

I  seen  the  car  move  on  away.  It  didn't  turn  in  at 
our  alley,  but  went  on  to  the  next  gate,  because  our 
road  wasn't  quite  finished  yet.  A  minute  afterward 
Bonnie  Bell  had  me  inside  the  door  in  the  hall  and  was 
kissing  us  both,  right  in  front  of  a  sad-looking  man  in 
clothes  like  ours. 

We  stood  for  just  a  minute  near  the  big  door,  and 
before  we  got  it  shut  she  looked  out  once  more  into 

47 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


the  night,  with  the  lights  shining  all  through  the  snow, 
and  the  trees  looking  white  and  thin  in  the  drift. 

"  Call  the  chauffore  in  and  have  him  get  a  drink," 
says  Old  Man  Wright.  "  That  was  a  cold  ride." 

But  by  this  time  he  was  gone ;  so  we  all  turns  back 
to  wrastle  with  this  sad  man,  who  evident  was  intend- 
ing to  mix  it  with  us. 


US  AND   THE    HOME   RANCH 

WHEN  all  three  of  us  —  Old  Man  Wright 
and  Bonnie  Bell  and  me  —  went  inside 
the  door  of  that  big  new  house  we  stood 
there  for  a  minute  or  so;  and  at  first  I  thought  we 
had  got  into  the  wrong  place  —  especial  since  that  sad 
man  looked  like  he  thought  so  too. 

It  was  all  lit  up  inside  and  you  could  see  'way  back 
into  the  hall  —  little  carpets  of  all  sorts  of  colors  lay- 
ing round,  and  pictures  on  the  wall,  and  a  fire  'way  on 
beyond  somewhere  in  a  grate.  I  never  seen  a  hotel 
furnished  better. 

Old  Man  Wright  was  like  a  man  that's  won  a  ele- 
phant on  a  lottery  ticket.  Bonnie  Bell  looks  at  him  and 
looks  at  me  like  she  missed  something.  On  the  whole, 
I  reckon  we  was  the  three  lonesomest,  scaredest,  unhap- 
piest  people  in  all  that  big  town  —  it  was  Christmas 
Eve  too ! 

There  was  a  lot  of  other  people  in  a  row  standing 
down  the  hall,  back  of  this  sad  man.  He  located  us 
at  last  and  began  to  help  Old  Man  Wright  take  off 
his  overcoat  —  and  me  too;  but  I  wouldn't  let  him. 

49 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


I  wasn't  sick  or  nothing.  So  we  stood  there  a  little 
while,  dressed  up  and  just  come  to  our  new  home  ranch. 

"  That  will  do,  William,"  says  Bonnie  Bell  to  the 
sad  man. 

"  Father,"  says  she,  and  she  leads  him  to  the  row 
of  folks  in  the  hall,  "  these  are  all  our  people  that  I 
have  engaged.  This  is  Mary,  our  cook;  and  Sarah, 
the  first  maid.  Annette  is  going  to  be  my  maid." 

Well,  she  went  down  the  line  and  introduced  us  to 
a  dozen  of  'em,  I  reckon.  I  just  barely  did  know 
enough  not  to  shake  hands.  Some  of  'em  touched 
their  foreheads  and  the  girls  bobbed.  They  didn't  talk 
none  and  they  didn't  shake  hands. 

By  now  Bonnie  Bell's  maid  had  her  coat  over  her 
arm  and  them  two  was  starting  upstairs. 

"  I'll  be  back  in  a  minute,  dad,"  says  she.  "  William 
will  take  you  and  Curly  into  your  room." 

The  sad  man  he  walks  off  down  the  hall,  us  follow- 
ing, and  we  come  to  a  place  right  in  the  center  of  the 
house  —  and  he  left  us  there.  We  stopped  when  we 
went  through  the  door. 

What  do  you  know  ?  Bonnie  Bell  had  fitted  up  that 
room  precisely  like  the  big  room  in  the  old  home  ranch ! 
All  our  old  things  was  there  —  how  she  got  them  I 
never  knew.  There  was  the  old  table,  with  the  pipes 
and  papers  on  it,  and  tobacco  scattered  round,  and 
bottles  over  on  the  shelf,  and  a  bridle  or  so  —  just  the 

50 


US  AND  THE  HOME  RANCH 

same  place  all  the  way  through.  She  even  had  the 
stones  of  the  old  fireplace  brought  on,  one  nicked, 
where  Hank  Henderson  shot  the  cook  once. 

"  Look-a-here,  Curly,"  says  Old  Man  Wright  after 
a  while. 

He  leads  me  over  to  the  corner  of  the  room,  aside 
of  the  fireplace.  Dang  me,  if  there  wasn't  our  two 
old  saddles,  wore  slick  and  shiny!  Old  Man  Wright 
stands  there  in  his  spiketail  coat,  and  he  runs  his  hand 
down  that  old  stirrup  leather  a  time  or  two ;  and  for  a 
little  while  he  can't  say  nothing  at  all  —  me  neither. 

"Ain't  she  some  girl,  Curly?"  says  he  after  a 
while. 

"  She's  the  ace,  Colonel,"  says  I. 

"Ain't  a  thing  overlooked,"  says  he,  thoughtful, 
walking  round  the  place,  his  hands  in  his  pockets. 

By  and  by  he  come  up  to  half  a  bottle  of  corn 
whisky  —  the  same  one  that  had  stood  on  the  table  out 
on  the  Circle  Arrow.  He  picks  it  up  and  pours  hisself 
out  a  drink,  thoughtful,  and  shoves  it  over  to  me. 

"  Every  little  thing! "  says  he.  "  Not  a  thing  left 
out!  It's  the  same  place.  Gawd  bless  the  girl,  any- 
ways! I  don't  think  I  could  of  stood  it  at  all  if  she 
hadn't  fixed  up  this  room  for  you  and  me.  I  was  just 
going  to  stampede." 

"Well,  Colonel,"  says  I,  "here's  looking  at  you! 
I  see  we've  got  a  place  where  we  can  come  in  and  un- 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


buckle.  It  makes  it  a  heap  easier.  I  wasn't  happy 
none  at  all  before  now." 

"  She  done  it  all  herself,"  says  her  pa,  setting  his 
glass  down  and  looking  round  the  room  once  more. 
"  I  give  her  free  hand.  The  architect  had  marked 
this  place  *  Den/  I  reckon.  Huh !  I  don't  call  it  a  den 
—  I  call  it  home,  sweet  home.  If  it  wasn't  for  this 
room,"  says  he,  "  this  would  be  one  hell  of  a  Christmas, 
wouldn't  it,  Curly?  But  never  mind;  we're  going 
to  break  into  this  town,  or  get  awful  good  reasons 
why." 

"  You  reckon  we  can,  Colonel  ?  "  says  I. 

"  Shore,  we  can !  "  says  he.  "  We  got  to !  Don't 
she  want  it  ?  " 

"  For  instance,"  says  I,  "  what's  the  name  of  our 
neighbors  over  next  door  to  us,  you  reckon  ?  " 

"  That's  where  Old  Man  Wisner  lives,"  says  he, 
grinning.  "  Them  was  the  folks  that  set  over  at  the 
table  that  Henderson  pointed  out  to  us  to-night.  He's 
the  biggest  packer  in  Chicago,  president  or  something 
in  about  all  the  banks  and  everything  else  —  there  ain't 
no  better  people  than  what  the  Wisners  are.  And 
don't  we  live  right  next  door  to  'em?  Can  you  beat 
it?  That's  why  the  land  cost  so  much. 

"  Wisner  didn't  want  us  to  buy  this  place ;  he  wanted 
to  buy  it  hisself,  but  buy  it  cheap.  It  was  him  or  me, 
and  I  got  it.  Still,  when  I  want  to  be  neighbor  to  a 


US  AND  THE  HOME  RANCH 

man  I'm  going  to  be  a  neighbor  whether  he  likes  it  or 
not." 

"  You  reckon  they'll  like  us  ?  "  says  I. 

"  They  got  to,"  says  he. 

We  was  standing  up,  our  glasses  in  hand,  looking 
out  through  the  door  down  the  hall  to  where  things  was 
all  bright  and  shiny;  and  just  then  we  heard  Bonnie 
Bell  come  down  the  stairs  and  call  out : 

"Oo-hoo,  dad!" 

We  raises  our  glasses  to  her  when  she  come  in  the 
door.  She  had  took  off  the  clothes  she  wore  down 
at  the  hotel  and  had  on  something  light  and  loose,  silk, 
better  for  wearing  in  the  house.  The  house  was  all 
warm,  too,  and  in  our  fireplace,  the  old  smoky  one, 
some  logs  was  burning  right  cheerful. 

It  was  a  new  sort  of  Christmas  to  us,  but  we  lived 
it  down.  The  next  morning  we  all  acted  as  much  like 
kids  as  we  could,  which  is  all  there  is  to  any  Christmas. 
My  socks  was  full  of  candy,  and  Old  Man  Wright  he 
had  a  Teddy  bear  in  his  —  part  ways  anyhow.  Then 
Bonnie  Bell  she  give  him  a  new  gold  watch  with  bells 
in  it,  and  me  a  couple  of  pins  for  my  necktie.  I  never 
could  get  'em  in  right. 

After  a  while  we  come  down  to  breakfast.  We  was 
in  a  big  room  that  faced  toward  the  Wisners'  and 
likewise  toward  the  lake.  I  reckon  you  could  see  forty 
miles  up  and  down  from  where  we  set  eating.  It  was 

53 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


warm  in  the  room,  though  there  wasn't  much  fire,  and 
we  all  felt  comfortable. 

You  could  see  out  our  windows  right  over  the  lot 
of  the  Wisners' ;  we  could  see  into  their  house  same  as 
they  could  see  into  ours.  There  was  a  garridge  set 
back  toward  the  lake,  same  as  ours,  about  on  the  same 
line,  and  beyond  that  you  could  see  a  boathouse.  They 
had  trees  in  their  yard  like  ours,  but  ours  was  almost 
as  big,  though  just  planted.  You  could  see  where  our 
flower  beds  was  laid  out,  and  the  lines  of  little  green 
trees  all  set  in  close  together.  On  beyond  the  Wisners' 
you  could  see  a  whole  row  of  other  houses,  all  big 
and  fine  like  theirs  and  ours. 

All  the  whole  country  was  covered  with  snow  that 
morning.  The  wind  was  still  blowing  and  the  lake 
coming  in  mighty  rough;  you  could  hear  the  noise  of 
it  through  the  windows.  It  looked  mighty  cold  outside 
and  it  was  cold.  You  can  freeze  to  death  respectable 
in  Wyoming,  but  in  Chicago  you  keep  on  freezing  and 
don't  freeze  to  death,  but  wish  you  would,  you  are  that 
cold. 

Well,  like  I  said,  it  was  warm  in  the  big  room  where 
we  et.  Bonnie  Bell  had  a  couple  of  yellow  canary  birds 
which  was  able  to  set  up  and  sing,  which  Old  Man 
Wright  said  was  almost  more  than  he  could  do  hisself. 
Breakfast  come  on  a  little  at  a  time  —  you  couldn't 
tell  how  much  of  it  there  was  going  to  be ;  but  it  made 

54 


US  AND  THE  HOME  RANCH 

good,  though  it  didn't  start  out  very  strong.  By  and 
by  it  got  round  to  ham  and  aigs,  which  made  us  feel 
better.  I  never  tasted  better  coffee ;  it  was  better  than 
anything  we  had  on  the  Yellow  Bull.  Ours  out  there 
was  mostly  extract,  in  pound  packages  —  beans,  I 
think,  maybe. 

"How  do  you  like  our  new  house,  dad?"  says 
she. 

"  They  can't  beat  it,  Bonnie  Bell,"  says  he. 

"  Dad ;  dear  old  dad !  "  says  she.  "  I'm  so  glad  you 
like  it  I  done  it  all  for  you." 

"  How  do  you  mean  ?  "  says  he. 

"  Why,  of  course,  you  know  what  a  sacrifice  it  was 
for  me  to  come  here  and  leave  the  old  place!  But  I 
seen  you  wanted  it.  If  I  thought  it  wasn't  all  right 
I  believe  it  would  break  my  heart." 

"  I  know  it,"  says  he.  "  I  know  what  a  sacrifice 
you  made  when  you  come  here  on  my  account.  If  any- 
thing comes  out  wrong  for  you  because  of  that  sacrifice 
it  shore  would  break  my  heart.  '  Button,  button/  says 
he,  'who's  got  the  sacrifice?'  If  you  leave  it  to  me 
I'd  say  it  was  Curly,  and  not  neither  of  us.  Forget 
it,  sis,  and  have  another  warfle." 

"  How  do  you  like  the  place,  Curly  ?  "  says  she  to 
me. 

"  I  never  seen  anything  like  it,"  says  I.  "  Like 
enough  you  paid  too  much  though.  I  bet  you  paid 

55 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


two  or  three  thousand  dollars  for  this  land  —  you  was 
fooling  when  you  said  over  two  hundred  thousand; 
and  there  ain't  enough  of  it  to  rope  a  cow  on  at  that. 
You  could  have  bought  several  sections  of  real  land 
for  the  same  money;  and  how  many  cows  this  here 
house  cost  there  can't  nobody  figure." 

About  then  I  heard  a  noise  out  in  the  street.  Four 
or  five  people  —  Dutch,  maybe  —  was  playing  in  a 
band  out  there  in  front  of  the  Wisners'.  A  man  come 
out  and  shooed  'em  away.  They  stood  out  in  front 
of  our  place  then  and  kept  on  playing.  It  seems  like 
you  can't  eat  in  Chicago  without  some  one  plays  music 
around. 

"  Here ;  take  'em  out  some  money,  William,"  says 
Old  Man  Wright.  "  It's  Christmas." 

They  played  some  more  then,  and  every  morning 
since.  I  always  hated  'em  and  I  reckon  everybody  else 
did  along  in  there,  but  there  didn't  seem  to  be  no  way 
to  run  'em  off. 

"  Well,"  says  Old  Man  Wright  when  we  finished 
our  breakfast,  "  what  are  we  going  to  do  today,  sis  ?  " 
says  he.  "  It's  good  tracking  snow,  but  there  ain't 
nothing  to  track.  There  ain't  no  need  to  see  how  the 
hay's  holding  out  or  to  wonder  if  the  cows  can  break 
through  the  ice  to  get  at  water.  There  ain't  no  horses 
in  the  barns.  We  ain't  got  a  single  thing  to  do  —  not 
even  feed  the  dogs." 

56 


US  AND  THE  HOME  RANCH 

Bonnie  Bell  was  reading  in  the  paper  which  William, 
the  sad  man,  had  put  by  our  plates.  Her  eyes  got  kind 
of  soft  and  wetlike. 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  we  can  do,  dad,"  says  she. 
"  Look  at  this  list  of  poor  people  here  in  town  that 
ain't  got  no  Christmas." 

"  I've  got  you,  sis,"  says  he.  "  William,  go  tell  the 
driver  to  bring  the  big  car  round ;  and  tell  the  cook  to 
get  several  baskets,  full  of  grub  —  we're  going  to  have 
a  little  party." 

Well,  by  and  by  the  chauffore  brought  the  car  round 
in  front  and  we  went  out ;  and  William  and  the  others 
loaded  her  up  with  baskets.  The  chauffore  was  look- 
ing kind  of  pale  and  shaky.  He  seemed  to  have  some- 
thing on  his  mind. 

"  I  hope  you'll  excuse  me,  sir,"  says  he,  touching  his 
hat  to  Old  Man  Wright.  "  I  didn't  mean  to  be  late ; 
but,  you  see,  it  was  Christmas  Eve " 

"  Why,  that's  all  right,"  says  Old  Man  Wright  to 
him.  "  Don't  mention  it  —  Christmas  is  due  to  come 
once  a  year  anyhow." 

"  I'll  not  let  it  occur  again,"  says  the  chauffore, 
touching  his  hat  again. 

"What?  Christmas?"  says  he.  "You  can't  help 
it" 

The  man  looked  at  him  kind  of  funny.  I  knew  then 
he'd  been  celebrating  the  night  before,  and  I  was  right 

57 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 

glad  he  hadn't  begun  to  celebrate  until  he'd  drove  us 
home,  for  he  was  jerky  yet. 

Christmas  is  a  time  when  folks  ought  to  be  happy. 
We  wasn't  happy  none  that  day.  I  never  seen  before 
what  it  was  to  be  real  poor.  Here  in  this  town,  where 
there  is  so  much  money,  it  seemed  like  there  was  hun- 
dreds and  thousands  of  people  hadn't  saw  a  square  meal 
in  their  whole  lives.  You  couldn't  hardly  stand  it  to 
see  'em  —  at  least  I  couldn't.  We  spent  our  day  that 
way  —  our  first  Christmas  in  town  —  trying  to  feed  all 
the  hungry  people  there  was ;  and  we  couldn't.  It  was 
the  saddest  Christmas  I  ever  had  in  all  my  life. 

That  night  Old  Man  Wright  and  me  didn't  stop  to 
put  on  our  regular  eating  clothes,  as  Bonnie  Bell  said 
we  ought  to,  and  we  all  set  down  in  her  dining-room 
for  dinner,  feeling  kind  of  thoughtful  and  thinking  of 
how  many  people  wasn't  going  to  get  no  such  a  dinner 
that  night.  As  for  us,  we  had  plenty ;  and,  believe  me, 
there  was  something  which  filled  a  long- felt  want  for 
Old  Man  Wright  and  me.  What  do  you  think? 
Why,  ham  shank  and  greens ! 

"  Sis,"  says  her  pa,  "  you  certainly  are  thoughtful." 

We  could  see  out  our  windows  over  into  the  Wis- 
ners'  windows  —  it  seemed  like  they  had  forgot  to  pull 
down  their  blinds,  same  as  we  had.  They  didn't  seem 
to  be  nobody  at  home,  only  one  young  man.  He  come 
in  all  by  hisself,  all  dressed  up,  and  there  was  three 

58 


US  AND  THE  HOME  RANCH 

men  waiting  on  him  at  the  table.  At  length  I  calls 
attention  to  this,  and  Bonnie  Bell  turns  her  head  and 
looks  across. 

"  William,"  says  she,  "  draw  the  blinds ;  and  be  more 
careful  after  this." 


VI 

US  AND  THEM    BETTER   T.HINGS 

WELL,  things  rocked  along  this  way  and  we 
got  through  the  winter  someways,  though 
every  once  in  a  while  I  taken  a  cold 
along  of  being  shut  up  so  much.     There  wasn't  no- 
where to  go  and  nothing  to  do  except  to  read  the  pa- 
pers and  wish  you  was  dead. 

Old  Man  Wright  couldn't  stand  it  no  more;  so  he 
goes  downtown  and  rents  him  a  fine  large  office  in  a 
big  building,  with  long  tables  with  glass  on  top,  and  big 
chairs,  something  like  in  a  bank.  He  didn't  put  no 
business  sign  on  the  door  —  just  his  name:  J.  W. 
Wright. 

I'm  lazy  enough  for  anybody,  like  any  cowpuncher 
—  I  don't  believe  in  working  only  in  spots ;  but  some- 
times I'd  get  so  tired  of  doing  nothing  at  the  house 
that  I'd  get  the  chauffore  to  take  me  down  to  Old  Man 
Wright's  office,  where  I  felt  more  at  home.  Nobody 
never  come  in  to  see  us  once  —  not  in  three  months. 
We  didn't  have  no  neighbors,  and  we  begun  to  see  that 
that  was  the  truth.  I  couldn't  understand  it,  for  we'd 
never  got  caught  at  nothing. 

60 


US  AND  THEM  BETTER  THINGS 

"  Colonel,"  says  I  one  morning,  "  do  you  reckon 
they're  holding  our  past  up  against  us  anyways  ?  "  says 
I.  "  We  spend  a  awful  lot  of  money,  but  what  do  we 
get  for  it?  Not  a  soul  has  came  in  our  new  house. 
As  for  me,  I  know  I  ain't  earning  no  salary." 

"  Don't  worry  about  that,  Curly,"  says  he.  "  You're 
getting  plenty  of  grub  and  a  place  to  sleep,  ain't  you? 
I'm  the  one  that  ought  to  worry,  because  I  can't  hardly 
find  nothing  to  do  here  except  make  a  little  money." 

"  Won't  there  nobody  play  cards  or  nothing  ? " 
Ain't  there  no  sports  in  this  town  ?  "  says  I. 

"  Poker  here  is  a  mere  name."  He  shakes  his  head. 
"If  you  push  in  a  hundred  before  the  draw  you're 
guilty  of  manslaughter.  But  there  is  other  ways  of 
making  money." 

"  How  is  the  deferred  payments  on  the  Circle  Arrow 
coming  on?"  says  I. 

"  One  come  in,  so  far,  interest  and  all,"  says  he.  "  I 
wisht  it  hadn't.  First  thing  I  know,  I'll  be  as  rich  as 
Old  Man  Wisner  here.  I  see  he  wants  to  run  for  al- 
derman up  in  that  ward.  Now  I  wonder  what  his 
game  is  there  —  it  don't  stand  to  reason  he'd  want  to 
be  a  alderman  now,  unless  there's  something  under  it. 
You'd  think  he  was  trying  to  run  the  town  and  the 
whole  world,  too,  wouldn't  you?" 

"I  don't  like  that  outfit,"  says  I.  "  They  ain't 
friendly.  If  a  man  don't  neighbor  with  you,  like 

61 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


enough  he's  stealing  somewhere  and  don't  want  to  be 
watched." 

"  That  certainly  is  so/'  says  he.  "  Still,  I  been  busy 
enough  for  a  while." 

"  The  first  thing  you  know,"  I  says  to  him,  "  you'll 
lose  your  roll,  and  then  where  will  we  be  ?  "  But  he 
only  laughs  at  that. 

"  For  instance,"  says  he,  "  you  see  all  them  electric 
lights  all  over  this  town.  I  begun  to  study  about  them 
things  when  I  first  come  here.  There's  a  sort  of  little 
thing  inside  that  they  burn  —  carbon,  they  call  it.  I 
seen  that  everybody  would  keep  their  eyes  on  the  light 
and  not  notice  the  carbon.  But  still  they  had  to  have 
carbon.  I  put  a  little  into  a  company  that  made  them 
things  —  not  much;  only  a  hundred  thousand  or  so. 
Since  then,  what  have  they  done?  Why,  they've 
turned  in  and  gave  me  eighty  per  cent  stock  for  noth- 
ing, and  raised  the  cash  dividend  until  I'm  making 
twenty  per  cent  on  all  I  invested  and  what  I  didn't 
invest  too.  Such  things  bores  me. 

"  Then  again,  there's  my  rubber  business,"  says  he, 
"  rubber  tires.  The  second  day  we  owned  the  big  car 
she  busts  a  couple  of  tires  —  fifty  dollars  or  so  per  each. 
I  begun  to  figure  out  how  many  cars  they  was  running 
in  this  town,  up  and  down  the  avenue  and  all  over  all 
the  other  streets,  each  one  of  'em  with  four  tires  on 
and  any  one  of  'em  liable  to  bust  any  minute.  I  fig- 

62 


US  AND  THEM  BETTER  THINGS 

ure  the  tires  runs  from  fifteen  to  sixty  dollars  apiece 
and  that  somebody  spends  a  lot  of  money  for  them. 
Then  I  went  and  bought  into  a  good  company  that 
makes  them  things,  a  few  months  ago  —  not  much; 
only  a  couple  of  hundred  thousand  or  so.  But  what's 
the  use  ?  "  He  sets  back  and  yawns,  looking  tired. 

"  I  can't  help  it.  I  can't  find  no  game  in  this  coun- 
try that's  hard  enough  to  play  for  to  be  interesting. 
What  them  rubber-tire  people  done  was  to  make  me  a 
present  of  a  whole  lot  of  other  stock  the  other  day  and 
raise  the  dividends.  I  can't  buy  into  no  company  at 
all,  it  seems  like,  'less'n  every  twenty  minutes  or  so 
they  up  and  declare  another  dividend.  I  don't  like  it. 
I  wisht  I  could  find  some  real  man's-size  game  to  play, 
because  I'm  like  you  —  I  get  lonesome." 

Still,  he  was  looking  thoughtful. 

"  Some  games  we  can  play,"  says  he.  "  Then  again, 
seems  like  there's  others  we  can't.  Now  about  the 
kid " 

"  She's  busy  all  the  time,"  says  I  to  him.  "  She 
reads  and  paints.  Sundays  she  goes  to  church,  while 
you  and  me  only  put  on  a  collar  that  hurts.  Week  days 
she  goes  down  to  the  picture  galleries  and  into  the  li- 
berry.  She  buys  books.  She's  got  her  own  cars  — 
the  big  car  and  the  electric  brougham  you  give  her  on 
her  birthday  last  week  —  ain't  a  thing  in  the  world  she 
ain't  got.  She's  plumb  happy." 

63 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


"  Except  that  she  ain't !  " 

"  You  mean  that  we  don't  know  nobody  —  nobody 
comes  in  to  visit  ?  "  He  nods.  "  Well,  why  don't  we 
go  in  and  call  on  them  Wisner  people  that  lives  next 
to  us  ?  "  says  I. 

"  We  can't  do  that ;  the  rules  of  the  game  is  that  the 
folks  living  in  a  place  first  has  to  make  the  first  call." 

"  That's  a  fool  rule,"  says  I. 

"  Shore  it  is ;  but  Bonnie  Bell  knows  all  them  rules 
and  she  ain't  going  to  make  any  break  —  Old  Man 
Smith  taught  her  a  few  things  —  or  maybe  she  learned 
it  instinctive  from  her  ma.  Her  ma  was  a  Maryland 
Janney.  They  pretty  near  knew.  And  yet  she  told 
me Oh,  shucks,  Curly !  " 

"Well,  what  did  she  say?" 

"  She  says  she  met  Old  Lady  Wisner  fair  out  on  the 
sidewalk  one  morning  and  she  was  going  to  speak  to 
her;  they  was  both  of  them  going  down  to  their  cars, 
which  was  standing  side  by  side  on  the  street.  The  old 
lady,  she  turns  up  her  nose,  such  as  there  was  of  it,  and 
she  looks  the  other  way.  That  hurt  my  girl  a  good 
deal.  You  know  she  ain't  got  a  unkind  thought  in  her 
heart  for  nobody  or  nothing  on  earth.  She  never  was 
broke  to  be  afraid  of  nothing  or  expect  nothing  but 
good  of  nobody  —  you  and  me  taught  her  that,  didn't 
we,  Curly  ?  And  that  old  cat  wouldn't  look  at  my  girl ! 
Well,  Curly,  that's  what  I  mean  when  I  say  there  is 

64 


US  AND  THEM  BETTER  THINGS 

some  games  that  seems  hard  to  play.  Don't  a  woman 
get  the  worst  of  it  every  way  of  the  deck,  anyhow?  " 

"  IWell  now,"  says  I,  "  ain't  there  no  way  we  can 
break  in  there  comfortable  like?  " 

"  I  don't  see  how,"  says  he,  shaking  his  head. 

"  Why  can't  we  kill  their  dog?  "  says  I.  "  Some- 
thing friendly,  just  to  start  things  going." 

"  That  ain't  no  good,"  says  he.  "  We  tried  it. 
Bonnie  Bell  already  killed  two  of  their  dogs  with  her 
new  electric  brougham.  You  see,  she  had  to  go  out 
and  try  it  for  herself,  for  she  says  she  can  ride  any- 
thing that  has  hair  on  it,  even  if  it's  only  curled  hair 
in  the  cushions.  First  thing  you  know,  the  Wisner 
dog  —  pug  nose  it  was,  with  its  tail  curled  tight  —  it 
goes  out  on  the  road,  acting  like  it  owned  the  whole 
street,  same  as  its  folks  does.  Well,  right  then  him 
and  Bonnie  Bell's  new  electric  mixes  it.  The  dog  got 
the  worst  of  it. 

"  Look-a-here,  Curly,"  says  he  after  a  while,  and 
pulls  a  square  piece  of  paper  outen  his  pocket. 
"  Here's  what  we  got  in  return  for  that  —  before 
Bonnie  Bell  had  time  to  say  she  was  sorry.  The  old 
lady  wrote,  for  once: 

Mrs.  David  Abraham  Wisner  requests  that  the  people 
living  next  door  to  her  exercise  greater  care  in  the  opera- 
tion of  their  vehicles,  as  the  animal  lost  through  the  criminal 
carelessness  of  one  of  these  people  was  of  great  value. 

65 


"Ain't  that  hell?"  says  he.  "Cheerful,  ain't  it? 
No  name  signed  to  it  —  nothing!  But  you  can  see 
from  that  just  how  they  felt.  That  was  three  days 
ago.  They  got  a  new  dog.  Well,  this  morning  Bon- 
nie Bell  killed  that  one ! 

"  The  trouble  with  them  dogs  is,  they  been  used  to 
thinking  they  own  this  whole  end  of  the  street.  They 
don't  seem  to  recognize  that  we're  anybody  at  all.  It's 
a  awful  thing  and  it  put  Bonnie  Bell  in  wrong.  She 
didn't  know  what  to  do.  She  was  so  mad  she  wouldn't 
write.  So  she  sends  for  Jimmie  —  I  mean  James,  our 
chauffore  —  he's  got  almost  sober  lately,  it  being  three 
months  or  so  since  Christmas,  and  him  knowing  a  lot 
about  dogs.  So  she  buys  a  new  dog  for  them  —  a 
large  one  that  you  can  see  easy,  a  collie  dog;  and  Jim- 
nie  says  he  paid  one-fifty  for  it." 

"  A  dollar  and  a  half  is  more  than  any  dog  is  worth," 
says  I,  "  especial  a  dog  that  has  anything  to  do  with 
someone  like  that  Wisner  woman." 

"  A  dollar  and  a  half !  "  says  he.  "  A  hundred  and 
fifty  is  what  it  cost;  this  was  a  swell  dog  —  a  young 
collie  about  a  year  old.  Well,  Bonnie  Bell,  she  sends 
it  round  by  James,  our  chauffore,  with  her  compliments. 
Their  butler  takes  it  in.  I  don't  know  whether  it's 
going  to  stick  or  not.  It's  a  sort  of  olive  branch. 
You  see,  Bonnie  Bell  can't  write  to  no  such  people, 
but  she  is  sorry  for  killing  their  dogs  and  she  wants  to 

66 


US  AND  THEM  BETTER  THINGS 

make  good  somehow.  I  think  it  was  a  right  good  way. 
It  looks  like  she  could  hold  her  own,  and  yet  like  she 
was  willing  to  meet  'em  halfway. 

"  Well,  that's  all  we  can  do,"  says  he.  "  Let  it  go 
the  way  it  lays  on  the  board.  I  don't  like  Old  Man 
Wisner  a  little  bit  anyhow." 

"  Well,"  says  I,  "if  he's  running  for  alderman,  why 
don't  you  run  for  sher'f  or  something,  just  to  keep  oc- 
cupied ?  " 

"  I'm  studying  my  ward,"  says  he.  "  I  don't  know 
very  many  of  the  saloon  people  yet.  You  have  to  be 
pretty  far  along  to  get  to  be  sher'f  in  a  place  like  this. 
But  now,  a  alderman  might  be  easier,  if  you  went  at 
it  right.  Anyways,  the  way  they  have  acted,  I  feel 
like  I'd  copper  any  game  Old  Man  Wisner  was  play- 
ing. I  kind  of  feel  in  my  bones  that  him  and  me  is 
going  to  lock  horns,  Curly.  I  don't  like  the  way  he 
acts;  and,  I  tell  you,  when  I  want  a  neighbor  to  be 
friendly  with  me  he's  got  to  be  friendly  sometime." 

Old  Man  Wright  gets  up  now  and  walks  around 
some,  kind  of  grinning. 

"  But,  on  the  whole,  I  may  find  something  to  keep  me 
busy  here  in  town.  For  instance,  Old  Man  Wisner  is 
back  of  some  sort  of  steal,  shore  as  you're  born,  in  the 
Lake  Shore  Electric  Extension  that's  going  on  up  in 
there  —  the  paper  says  he's  been  selling  it,  or  the  inter- 
ests has.  [Why  ?  He  never  done  a  direct  thing  in  his 

67 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


life  —  that  ain't  the  way  he  does  business;  for  that 
matter,  it  ain't  the  way  business  is  done  in  the  city 
nohow.  It's  always  done  at  a  side  door,  not  at  a  front 
door,  the  way  we  done  it  on  the  Yellow  Bull  —  straight 
out,  even-Stephen. 

"  I  figure  he  starts  that  story  to  make  that  stock 
cheap.  Well,  the  other  day  I  buy  up  a  little  of  it, 
right  cheap  at  that  —  not  much;  only  a  few  hundred 
thousand  dollars.  Now  I  figure  that  if  it  ever  goes  up 
for  Old  Man  Wisner  it  will  go  up  some  for  me.  I  may 
buy  some  more  of  it.  I  don't  know  as  it  is  worth 
anything  —  maybe  not;  but  it  certainly  would  please 
me  if  I  could  find  some  kind  of  a  side  game  here  where 
I  couldn't  make  no  money.  I'm  bored,  Curly,"  says 
he ;  "  that's  what's  the  matter  with  me." 

But  still  he  came  round  again  and  again  to  the  real 
center  of  our  coming  to  town  —  Bonnie  Bell.  Him 
and  me  could  have  had  a  good  time,  but  we  knew  per- 
fectly well  that  she  wasn't  having  no  good  time. 

"  Curly,"  says  he,  kind  of  frowning  and  his  jaw 
working  some,  "  she  ain't  got  a  friend  in  this  whole 
damn  town." 

"  Listen  at  you ! "  says  I  to  him.  "  What  are  you 
talking  about?  She  has  got  us,  ain't  she?  We  are 
her  friends.  We've  raised  her.  We  are  going  to  take 
care  of  her.  Ain't  that  enough  ?  " 

"  No,  Curly,"  says  he  to  me;  "  we  ain't  enough," 

68 


VII 


*  '"^T  "IT    "TELL,"  says  Old  Man  Wright  to  Bonnie 

%  /%  /     Bell  one  day  about  four  o'clock  when 

V      T        we  was  having  a  cup  of  tea,  which 

William  insisted  we  ought  to  drink  then,  "  what  have 

them  folks  over  there  said  about  the  dog  you  sent 

'em?" 

"  They  haven't  said  a  word,"  says  Bonnie  Bell. 
"  They  kept  the  dog  though.  I  don't  think  much  of 
that  outfit,  if  you  ask  me,  dad,"  says  she. 

"  Nor  me  neither,"  says  he.  "  It  was  too  bad  you 
run  over  their  dog,  or  so  many  of  their  dogs ;  but  then 
you  done  what  you  could,  sending  'em  another  dog  as 
big  as  all  you  killed.  A  collie  is  right  smart.  I  hope 
this  one  will  keep  on  the  sidewalk  and  not  get  under 
the  wheels.  That  Boston  dog  of  yours  always  has  me 
guessing." 

Well,  we  talked  on  a  while,  both  of  us  sort  of  joshing 
her  on  her  dog  deal,  until  she  gets  up  and  goes  away 
from  the  little  table  where  she  is  setting  and  stands  in 
front  of  the  window,  looking  out,  her  teacup  in  her 
hand.  All  at  once  she  says : 

69 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


"Good  Lord!" 

"  What's  wrong?  "  says  her  pa,  and  we  all  holler  at 
her.  But  she  is  out  of  the  room  and  down  at  the  door 
before  we  can  stop  her,  all  in  her  gingham  apern  and 
cap,  like  she  is  then;  for  she  had  been  looking  after  the 
housecleaning  —  though  William  looks  at  her  sad  for 
not  being  dressed  up  more. 

We  went  to  the  window  and  looked  out.  All  at  once 
we  heard  a  awful  barking  going  on  down  there,  and  we 
seen  what  had  happened.  That  new  dog  of  theirs  had 
come  into  our  yard  to  look  around,  and  Bonnie  Bell's 
Boston  dog,  Peanut  —  which  mostly  rode  in  her  car 
with  her  —  had  jumped  this  here  visiting  dog,  and 
they  was  having  it  out  sincere,  right  in  our  front 
yard. 

Well,  sir,  it  was  one  of  the  prettiest  fights  you  ever 
seen.  A  collie  ain't  no  slouch  in  a  scrap,  and  if  this 
dog  wouldn't  of  been  so  young  he  like  enough  could 
of  licked  Peanut,  all  right.  But,  you  see,  Peanut  he 
was  taking  care  of  his  own  folks,  according  to  the  way 
he  figured  it,  and  this  was  a  intrusion  on  the  part  of 
the  Wisner  dog. 

Anything  that's  got  bull  pup  in  him,  like  Peanut  had, 
ain't  got  no  sense  about  fighting ;  so  Peanut  he  mixed  it 
with  the  collie  copious,  and  they  tumbled  all  over  the 
yard  until  you  couldn't  hardly  tell  which  was  which. 
At  last  Peanut  got  himself  a  good  leg  holt,  and  the 

70 


WHAT  THEIR  HIRED  MAN  DONE 

collie  hollers  bloody  murder  and  starts  for  home  and 
mother  through  the  fence,  Peanut  hanging  on. 

It  seems  like  their  front  door  was  open;  and  the 
collie  he  made  for  it,  hollering  every  jump,  and  Peanut 
after  him.  He  chases  him  plumb  up  the  steps  and 
clear  into  the  house,  and  that  was  all  we  could  see  for 
a  while,  except  Bonnie  Bell  standing  in  her  cap  and 
apern,  looking  across.  Then  through  the  window  we 
could  see  folks  running  round  here  and  there,  like  the 
dogs  had  got  into  the  middle  of  the  house  and  was 
still  mixing  it. 

By  and  by  —  three  or  four  minutes  —  their  butler 
comes  out,  holding  Peanut  by  the  collar,  and  drops 
him  on  the  front  steps.  But  Peanut  he  is  game,  and 
he  ain't  had  no  satisfaction  out  of  this  scrap;  so  he 
goes  back  and  scratches  most  of  the  paint  offen  their 
front  door,  and  barks  and  howls,  trying  to  get  back  in 
to  finish  his  job. 

Bonnie  Bell  she  stands  there  just  crying  because  she 
is  so  much  ashamed,  and  she  calls  and  whistles  to 
Peanut.  When  he  comes,  at  last,  he  does  it  looking 
over  his  shoulder  and  growling,  and  daring  that  other 
dog  to  come  out  and  knock  a  chip  off  n  his  shoul- 
der. 

When  Bonnie  Bell  come  back  in,  carrying  Peanut, 
happy,  by  the  loose  skin  of  his  neck,  she  was  more 
worried  than  I  ever  seen  her  about  anything. 

71 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


"  Now  we've  done  it ! "  says  she.  "  Our  dog  run 
right  in  their  house  and  chased  their  dog.  There  was 
guests  there,  too  —  look  at  the  cars  standing  out  there. 
They  was  holding  some  kind  of  a  party  —  bridge,  like 
enough.  Oh,  whatever  shall  we  do !  " 

"  Come  here,  Peanut,"  says  Old  Man  Wright ;  which 
Peanut  jumps  up  on  his  lap  then.  "  Have  something 
on  the  house,"  says  he;  "and  if  that  dog  comes  over 
in  here  eat  him  up !  " 

Peanut  understands  this  perfect,  and  he  goes  to  the 
window  and  tries  to  get  out,  and  barks  until  you  could 
hear  him  a  block. 

"  That  is  some  dog,  sis,"  says  her  pa.  "  It  looks 
like,  anyhow,  some  of  our  family  has  broke  into  polite 
society  for  once.  Come  here,  pup ! "  And  he  pats 
Peanut  on  the  head  and  laughs  like  he  is  going  to  die 
over  it.  But  not  Bonnie  Bell ! 

There  was  a  awful  silence  come  in  between  them 
two  big  houses  after  that.  There  wasn't  anything  that 
we  seen  fit  to  say  and  they  didn't  pay  no  attention  to 
us.  Their  hired  man  —  that  worked  round  the  back 
yard  sometimes  in  overalls  and  a  sweater  —  he  some- 
times walks  out  in  the  yard  with  their  collie,  but  he 
takes  mighty  good  care  to  keep  on  his  own  side  of  the 
fence. 

It  was  getting  spring  by  now  —  sort  of  raw  weather 
once  in  a  while;  but  the  grass  was  getting  green,  and 

72 


WHAT  THEIR  HIRED  MAN  DONE 

some  of  Bonnie  Bell's  flowers  she  had  planted  was  be- 
ginning to  show  up  through  the  ground,  and  once  in  a 
while  she  would  go  out,  in  old  clothes  mostly,  with 
maybe  a  cap  and  a  apern  and  fuss  round  with  her 
flowers.  She  wouldn't  never  look  across  at  the  Wisner 
house. 

Their  hired  man  that  taken  care  of  their  dog  was 
the  one  that  taken  care  of  their  flowers,  same  as  she 
did  of  ours.  One  morning  it  seems  like,  not  noticing 
each  other,  they  was  working  along  kind  of  close  to 
the  fence,  not  far  apart  from  each  other,  and  all  at 
once  he  stands  up  and  sees  her. 

"  Good  morning ! "  says  he,  which  Bonnie  Bell 
couldn't  help. 

She  looks  up  and  sees  him  standing  there,  with  his 
hat  in  his  hand,  respectful  enough;  and,  since  he  was 
only  one  of  their  hired  people,  her  not  feeling  any  way 
but  friendly  to  anybody  on  earth  that  is  halfway  decent 
to  her,  she  says: 

"  Good  morning !  I  see  you're  fixing  your  flowers 
too." 

"  Yes,"  says  he ;  "  these  crocuses  will  soon  be  out. 
What  color  is  yours?  " 

"  All  sorts,"  says  she ;  "  and  I  do  hope  they'll  all  do 
well." 

"  I'd  be  glad  to  be  of  any  help  I  could,"  says  he. 

"  Well,  that's  kind  of  you,"  says  she;  "  you,  being  a 
73 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


gardener,  know  more  about  these  things  than  I  do." 
About  then  this  here  collie  dog  comes  up  to  where  he 
is  standing. 

"  Oh,  goodness !  "  says  Bonnie  Bell.  "  Don't  let  that 
dog  come  over  in  our  yard,  whatever  you  do." 

All  at  once  he  broke  out  a-laughing. 

"  I'll  take  care  of  him,"  says  he.  "  I  wouldn't  take  a 
thousand  for  that  dog.  They  didn't  want  to  keep  him, 
but  I  said  they'd  have  to.  That  was  a  good  fight  they 
had  in  the  house,"  says  he,  and  laughed  again. 

Bonnie  Bell  she  got  red,  and  says  she : 

"  I'm  awfully  sorry.  That  dog  of  ours  is  a  terror 
to  fight.  We  can't  break  him  of  it  any  way.  I  hope 
you'll  apologize  to  your  people,"  says  she  — "  that  is, 
if  they  wouldn't  take  it  wrong  of  us  to  have  it  men- 
tioned. I  don't  know." 

"  Oh,  no ;  I  guess  that'll  be  all  right,"  says  he.  "  I've 
been  with  'em  so  long,  you  see,  I  can  kind  of  make  free 
about  it.  If  you  feel  bad  about  it  I'll  tell  'em;  but  it 
wasn't  your  fault." 

"  It  would  be  just  like  that  bunch  of  yours,"  says  she, 
"  not  to  let  on  that  they  had  heard  from  us  that  I  was 
sorry.  I  oughtn't  to  say  it  maybe,  but " 

"  Well  now,"  says  the  hired  man,  frank-like  enough, 
"  that's  just  the  way  I  feel.  I  often  tell  the  old  man, 
myself,  that  he  ain't  so  much  —  he  come  from  Iowa 
once  when  he  didn't  have  a  cent  to  his  name,  and  yet 

74 


/  says  he,  '  our  dog  is  more  of  a  trench  fighter.'  " 


WHAT  THEIR  HIRED  MAN  DONE 

he  puts  on  more  side  now  than  anybody  else  on  the 
street." 

"  Did  you  ever  dare  to  say  that  to  him  ?  "  says  Bon- 
nie Bell. 

"  I  certainly  did,  and  more  than  once.  I  ain't  afraid 
to  say  anything  to  either  one  of  'em,"  says  he.  "  They 
don't  dare  say  much  to  me.  I  know  too  much  about 
'em.  But,  say  now  —  about  that  fight,"  says  he.  "  I 
want  to  tell  you  that  new  dog  we've  got  is  some  peach. 
Give  him  a  year  or  so  and  he'll  eat  up  that  pup  of 
yours." 

"  He  never  seen  the  day  he  could  and  he  never  will !  " 
says  Bonnie  Bell.  "If  you  feel  that  way  about 
it " 

"  Well,"  says  he,  "  our  dog  is  more  of  a  trench 
fighter.  He  got  under  the  tables  where  them  old  hens 
was  playing  bridge  and  he  held  out  until  your  pup 
flanked  in  on  him." 

"  Did  you  see  the  fight?  "  says  Bonnie  Bell. 

"  Sure  I  did !     I  was  right  there." 

"  Yes?  "  says  she.     "  In  such  clothes?  " 

"  Just  like  I  am.  I  happened  to  be  going  past  the 
room  where  they  was  holding  their  party  and  just  then 
the  dogs  came  in.  Believe  me,  it  was  more  fun  than 
there  has  been  in  our  house  for  a  good  many  years. 
Of  course  it  was  some  informal." 

"  Well,"  says  Bonnie  Bell,  "  I  can  see  you  must  of 

75 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


been  in  the  family  a  long  time  or  you  wouldn't  feel 
the  way  you  do." 

"  Twenty-odd  years,"  says  he,  drawing  hisself  up. 
"  I  was  taken  captive  in  my  early  youth,  and  I  have 
been  in  servitude  ever  since,  with  no  hope  of  getting 
away,"  says  he.  "  But  a  fellow  has  to  make  a  living 
somehow  and  I  had  only  my  labor  to  sell.  You  see,  I 
know  something  about  flowers,  and  I  can  drive  a  car 
now  some  or  run  a  boat." 

"  We've  bought  one  of  those  little  boats,"  says  Bon- 
nie Bell.  "  Sometime  I'm  going  to  take  her  out  and 
learn  how  to  run  her  myself." 

"  You  ought  to  be  careful  about  this  lake,"  says  he. 
"  It  gets  awful  rough  sometimes.  Still,  it's  good 
fun." 

You  can  see  they  was  visiting  right  and  left  —  just 
her  and  the  hired  man!  But,  her  being  so  lonesome 
that  way  all  the  time,  it  seemed  like  she'd  have  to  talk 
to  somebody,  and  this  man  seemed  right  friendly, 
though  he  was  only  a  workingman.  Bonnie  Bell  never 
was  stuck  up  at  all.  Maybe  he  thought  she  was  one  of 
our  maids. 

"  Gardening  is  all  right,"  says  he  finally,  drawing 
close  to  the  fence ; "  but,  for  me,  I'd  rather  be  a  cowman 
than  anything  I  know.  I'd  rather  ride  a  cowhorse 
than  drive  any  car  on  earth.  This  life  here  gets  on 
my  nerves." 

76 


WHAT  THEIR  HIRED  MAN  DONE 

"  Don't  it  ?  "  says  she  to  him.  "  Sometimes  I  feel 
that  way  myself." 

"  What  anybody  finds  to  like  in  a  city  is  more  than 
I  can  see.  If  I  had  money  I'd  buy  a  ranch,"  says  he, 
"  and  then  I'd  live  happy  ever  after." 

Now  wasn't  that  funny,  him  wanting  to  do  just  the 
very  thing  we  had  quit  doing  and  us  going  to  live  right 
alongside  of  him  that  way?  Still,  of  course,  he  was 
only  a  hired  man  —  ain't  none  of  'em  contented.  I 
ain't  always,  myself. 

Bonnie  Bell  thought  this  was  getting  too  sort  of 
personal  and  she  starts  in  toward  the  house  —  she  tells 
me  a  good  deal  of  this  afterward  —  but  he  come  up 
closer  to  the  fence  and  seemed  kind  of  sorry  to  have 
her  go;  and  says  he: 

"  Wait  a  minute.  I  was  telling  you  about  my 
ranch.  I'm  going  to  have  one  some  day.  Do  you 
think  I'd  live  here  all  my  life  with  the  old  gentleman 
and  the  old  lady,  and  nothing  to  do  but  tinkering  round 
flowers  and  cars  ?  I  ain't  that  trifling." 

"  I  must  be  going  in,"  says  she  then. 

So  she  left  him.  He  nearly  climbed  over  the  fence 
to  keep  her  from  going,  and  the  last  thing  she  heard 
him  say  was: 

"  I  hope  I  can  help  you  about  the  flowers."  She 
began  to  think  he  was  kind  of  fresh  like.  She  told  me 
what  he  said. 

77 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


Her  pa  seen  some  of  this  out  of  the  window  and  he 
called  her  down  when  she  come  in. 

"  I  don't  think  I'd  talk  much  with  any  of  them  folks 
if  I  was  in  your  place,"  says  he. 

"  Why,  dad,"  says  she,  "  you  don't  want  me  to  be 
stuck  up  like  them,  do  you?  " 

Then  she  told  him  how  Peanut  had  chased  their  dog 
in  there  and  broke  up  their  bridge  party.  They  both 
had  to  laugh  at  that. 

"  Their  gardener,  James,  told  me  that  Old  Man 
Wisner  ain't  much,  nor  the  old  lady  neither,"  says 
Bonnie  Bell  after  a  while.  "  It's  just  what  I  thought." 

"  I  don't  know  as  he  ought  to  talk  that  way  about 
the  people  he  works  for,"  says  her  pa.  "  I'd  be  kind 
of  careful  about  any  man  that  was  knocking  his  boss  — 
wouldn't  you,  Curly  ?  " 

"  Well,  it  was  all  my  fault,  dad,"  says  she.  "  He 
said  good  morning;  then  I  ast  him  about  the  flowers 
and  he  offered  to  help  me  with  the  crocuses." 

"  Don't  take  no  help  from  none  of  that  Wisner  out- 
fit," says  her  pa.  "  You  hear  me  ?  " 

As  spring  come  along  and  the  weather  got  pleasanter, 
Bonnie  Bell  was  happier,  because  she  could  get  out  of 
doors  more.  Now  she  took  to  running  this  new  power 
boat  we  had.  It  was  a  whizzer.  It  didn't  take  her 
long  to  learn  how  to  run  it.  About  everybody  in 
Millionaire  Row  had  boathouses  on  the  lake  and  most 

78 


WHAT  THEIR  HIRED  MAN  DONE 

of  them  had  these  gasoline  boats  —  you  could  hear 
them  sput-sputting  round  out  there  evenings  almost 
any  bright  day. 

Her  pa  didn't  like  her  to  go  out  on  the  lake  very 
much;  being  from  Wyoming  he  was  scared  of  water 
—  especial  so  much  of  it.  He  tells  Bonnie  Bell  to  be 
careful  and,  if  she  must  go  out  on  the  lake,  to  only  go 
when  it  was  smooth. 

In  one  way  there  wasn't  no  need  to  be  scared  about 
the  girl,  for  she  could  swim  like  a  duck  —  Old  Man 
Smith  taught  all  of  'em  that.  Nearly  every  morning 
she  would  go  out  in  her  bathing  suit  down  our  walk  and 
through  our  garridge,  and  across  the  dock,  and  dive 
into  that  water  where  it  was  more  than  forty  feet  deep 
and  as  cold  as  ice.  She  wasn't  afraid.  She  would 
come  back  wet  and  laughing,  and  say  she  liked  it.  I 
wouldn't  have  done  that  for  a  farm.  I  don't  believe  in 
going  into  water  unless  you  have  to  ford. 

I  hate  anything  that  runs  by  gasoline,  because  it's 
a  shore  thing  that  sooner  or  later  it'll  ball  up  on  you 
somewheres.  A  good  cowhorse  is  the  only  safe  thing 
to  go  anywhere  with,  and  anybody  knows  that.  Bon- 
nie Bell  coaxed  me  out  in  her  boat  once  —  but  not  more 
than  once.  The  lake  wasn't  so  rough  neither ;  but  the 
boat  riz  up  and  down  until  I  didn't  feel  right,  and  I 
wouldn't  go  no  more.  But  Bonnie  Bell  got  so  some 
afternoons  she'd  be  out  hours  at  a  time,  ripping  and 

79 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


charging  up  and  down,  water  flying  out  from  the  front 
of  the  boat.  Mostly  she'd  ride  in  her  bathing  clothes, 
and  her  hair  done  up  under  her  cap.  There  was  kind 
of  a  wild  streak  in  her  anyway  and  she  was  always 
taking  chances. 

One  evening  round  four  or  five  o'clock,  after  a  warm 
day  in  the  summer  time,  she  was  out  there  about  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  from  the  shore  and  all  by  herself. 
There  was  quite  a  wind  up,  and  the  waves  was  rolling 
pretty  high,  breaking  white  on  top,  too,  and  making 
such  a  noise  I  was  plumb  uneasy.  Her  pa  was  away 
from  home ;  so  I  went  down  on  the  dock  and  stood  out 
there  trying  to  holler  at  her  so  she  would  hear  me,  but 
I  couldn't  make  her  hear.  I  waved  things,  too,  but 
she  didn't  seem  to  see  them. 

She  was  a  sort  of  dare-devil  at  riding  or  driving 
anything,  and  I  reckon  maybe  she  was  enjoying  that 
sloshing  through  the  water,  though  I  expected  every 
minute  to  see  the  boat  go  upside  down.  I  could  hear 
the  engine  of  the  boat  going  fast  —  sput-sput-sput-t-t ! 
I  could  only  hope  it  would  keep  all  right.  All  gas  en- 
gines is  sinful. 

She  had  been  the  only  one  out  on  the  lake  right  then, 
it  being  so  rough ;  but  along  about  now,  down  toward 
town,  a  half  mile  or  so  off,  I  seen  another  boat  coming, 
lifting  up  high  on  top  of  the  waves,  then  going  out  of 
sight  in  the  hollow  for  quite  a  while.  It  was  heading 

80 


WHAT  THEIR  HIRED  MAN  DONE 

straight  in  for  our  place.  The  fellow  in  it  was  run- 
ning kind  of  sideways  to  the  waves  and  I  would  a 
heap  rather  it  would  of  been  him  in  the  boat  than 
me. 

Bonnie  Bell  was  a  little  farther  out,  heading  into 
the  waves  and  enjoying  the  rocking,  it  seemed  like. 
By  and  by  I  seen  her  looking  off  to  the  south ;  and  then 
her  engine  begin  to  sput-sput  a  heap  faster,  and  I  seen 
her  boat  swing  out  and  head  that  way. 

I  looked  out  at  the  other  boat  then.  I  didn't  see  it 
for  a  while,  but  at  last  it  swung  up  on  top  of  a  big 
wave.  It  wasn't  the  way  it  had  been,  but  blacker.  I 
seen  the  water  shine  on  the  boards.  Then  I  knowed 
what  had  happened  —  the  boat  had  turned  over. 

It  was  just  like  Bonnie  Bell  to  head  in  to  see  if  she 
could  help.  I  hollered  at  her,  but  she  couldn't  hear 
and  I  don't  reckon  she'd  of  stopped  anyways. 

Them  little  boats  goes  awful  fast  and  it  seemed  like 
Bonnie  Bell —  for  that  was  the  name  of  her  boat,  her 
pa  had  gave  it  that  name  —  didn't  seem  to  hit  the 
waves  none,  only  in  the  high  places.  In  just  a  little 
while  she  was  where  the  upset  had  done  happened.  I 
seen  her  slow  down  and  swing  in,  and  then  stand  up 
and  whirl  a  rope.  Then  she  reached  over  and  then 
hauled  back. 

"  Well,  anyhow,"  says  I  to  myself,  "  she's  saved  a 
corpse,"  says  I. 

81 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


I  learned  afterward  that  he  wasn't  dead  and  that 
when  Bonnie  Bell  reaches  in  and  grabs  him  by  the  collar 
she  tells  him  to  keep  still  or  she'll  soak  him  over  the 
head  with  the  boat  hook. 

"  We'll  be  in  in  a  minute,"  says  she  to  him.  Of 
course  I  didn't  know  that  then. 

It  seems  like  she  didn't  try  to  haul  him  plumb  in, 
the  waves  running  so  high ;  and  she  run  the  engine  with 
one  hand  and  held  on  to  him  with  the  other,  him  drag- 
ging along  at  one  side  of  the  boat  and  getting  a  mouth- 
ful of  water  every  once  in  a  while.  It  wasn't  very  far 
off  from  our  dock  and  pretty  soon  they  come  along- 
side. 

"  Grab  him,  Curly ! "  says  she ;  so  I  grabbed  him 
when  she  swung  in  and  hauled  him  up. 

He  was  wet  all  over  and  at  first  he  seemed  half  mad. 
I  seen  who  he  was  then  —  he  was  the  Wisner's  hired 
man. 

"  Why  didn't  you  let  me  alone  ?  "  says  he.  "  I'd  'a' 
got  her  all  right  pretty  soon.  You  might  have  gone 
over  too." 

"  What  ?  "  says  she,  scornful.  "  You're  all  right 
anyways,  and  you  got  no  kick  coming." 

She  stood  up  in  her  bathing  clothes,  wet  as  she  could 
be,  and  part  of  her  hair  hanging  down  underneath  her 
cap,  and  he  looked  at  her  kind  of  humble.  And  says 
he: 

82 


WHAT  THEIR  HIRED  MAN  DONE 

"  I  thank  you  very  much.  Pardon  me  for  what  I 
said."  Then  he  looks  down  at  his  clothes  and  seen 
they  was  wet,  and  he  broke  out  laughing.  "  All  to  the 
candy !  "  says  he.  "  My  life  saved  for  my  country !  " 
says  he. 

"  There  wasn't  no  sense  in  your  going  over,"  says 
Bonnie  Bell,  scolding  him.  "*  You  was  getting  your 
mixture  too  rich  and  you  clogged  up  your  engine.  You 
can't  overfeed  them  two-cycles  that  way  and  get  away 
with  it." 

"That  wasn't  the  trouble  at  all,"  says  he.  "I 
caught  my  foot  in  the  ignition  wire  and  broke  it  off. 
Of  course  she  couldn't  run  then;  but  I  could  of  swum 
in  from  where  I  was  and  the  boat  would  have  drifted 
in." 

"  You  would  have  got  good  and  wet  swimming  in," 
says  she,  still  scornful,  "  and  you  would  have  got 
pounded  to  pieces  against  the  sea  wall;  that's  what 
would  have  happened  to  you.  Some  folks,"  says  she, 
"  ain't  fit  to  go  out  alone  anyways." 

And,  so  saying,  she  leaves  us  both,  wet  as  she  was 
in  her  bathing  clothes,  and  runs  on  through  the  boat- 
house  and  up  the  steps.  He  stood  looking  after  her, 
sober. 

"  Don't  I  know  that !  "  says  he,  turning  to  me.  "If 
it  hadn't  been  for  her  it  would  have  been  all  day  with 
me.  But  I  certainly  thought  she'd  be  over." 

83 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


"  It's  a  good  thing  Bonnie  Bell  could  run  that  boat," 
says  I. 

"  Bonnie  Bell  ?  "  says  he.  "  Is  that  her  name  ?  By 
Jove !  Well  now,  by  Jove !  And  what's  your  name  ?  " 
says  he. 

"  Wilson,"  says  I.     "  They  call  me  Curly  for  short." 

"Curly?"  says  he.  "That  sounds  sort  of  like  a 
cowboy's  name,  don't  it  ?  " 

"  I  never  seen  a  cow  camp  yet  where  there  wasn't 
some  cowpuncher  name  Curly,"  says  I. 

"  Cowpuncher !  You  wasn't  ever  one  yourself,  was 
you?"  say  she. 

"  I  never  was  nothing  else,"  says  I. 

Then  he  held  out  his  hand. 

"  Shake !  "  says  he.  "  Some  folks  gets  what  other 
folks  wishes.  Ain't  it  the  truth  ?  " 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  I  ast  him. 

"  Well,"  says  he,  "  I  always  wanted  to  be  a  cowboy, 
yet  I  never  did  have  a  chance  to  go  on  a  ranch." 

"  You're  the  gardener,  ain't  you  ?  "  says  I,  and  he 
nods. 

"  That's  all  I  get  to  do.  Still,  I  may  have  a  chance 
to  do  better  sometime." 

He  was  a  right  nice-looking  fellow,  clean  shaved  and 
his  hair  cut  good,  and  his  mustache  cut  right  short.  He 
looks  down  at  his  clothes  now,  but  he  didn't  seem  to 
care  —  acted  like  he  had  plenty  more ;  and  he  laughed. 


WHAT  THEIR  HIRED  MAN  DONE 

He  was  wet,  but  he  wasn't  shivering.  He  come  pretty 
near  drowning  but  he  wasn't  scared.  I  rather  liked 
him  even  if  he  was  only  a  hired  man  like  myself.  He 
seemed  sort  of  hardy. 

"  You  know  how  she  got  me  ?  "  he  ast  me  now. 
"  She  threw  the  loop  of  a  rope  over  me,  and  if  I  hadn't 
got  it  in  my  hand  I  reckon  she'd  of  choked  me  to 
death." 

"  She's  a  good  roper,"  says  I,  "  and  she  can  ride  as 
well  as  she  can  rope." 

"  Could  you  ever  show  me  how  to  rope  ?  "  says  he. 
"Would  you?" 

"  Shore  I'll  show  you  sometime  if  we  ever  get  a 
chance,"  says  I.  "  I'll  look  round  in  our  ranch  room 
there  in  the  house,  and  see  if  I  can  find  a  rope." 

"  Have  you  got  a  room  in  there  like  a  ranch  ?  " 
says  he. 

"  Exacty  like  our  old  ranch,"  says  I.  "  It's  the 
main  room  out  of  the  old  Circle  Arrow  Ranch." 

"  Could  she,  now  —  would  she  help  teach  a  fellow 
how  to  rope  a  drowning  person  ?  "  says  he.  "  That's 
what  she  done.  She's  a  corker,  ain't  she  ?  " 

"  She  shore  is,"  says  I.  "  Her  own  folks  mostly  re- 
serves the  right  to  say  that,  though." 

"  I  beg  pardon,"  says  he,  and  he  got  red  again.  "  I 
know  where  I  belong." 

"  Just  kind  of  keep  on  knowing  where  you  belong 
85 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


and  where  she  belongs,  son,"  says  I  — "  it's  two  differ- 
ent propositions.  I  trust,  my  good  man,"  says  I  to 
him,  "that  you  understand  I'm  the  foreman  of  the 
ranch." 

"  Don't  it  beat  the  world,"  says  he  to  me  after  a 
while  —  us  standing  there  still  talking  though  he  was 
wet  as  a  rat  — "  how  things  is  run  ?  Sometimes  it 
seems  like  we  can't  help  ourselfs,  and  we  all  get  into 
the  wrong  places  trying  to  get  into  the  right  ones. 
Now  I'd  like  to  thank  that  lady;  but  I  can't.  She's 
wonderfully  beautiful,  isn't  she  —  your  mistress?  I 
say  now,  Curly,  you  thank  her  for  me,  won't  you?  " 

I  felt  rather  savage  towards  anybody  coming  from 
the  Wisner  side  of  the  fence,  but  someway  this  fellow 
was  so  decent,  and  he  evident  meant  to  be  so  square, 
that  I  couldn't  hardly  feel  no  way  but  friendly  to  him. 

"  You've  been  with  your  folks  quite  a  while,  ain't 
you?  "  says  I  after  a  while. 

"  Oh,  yes ;  I  suppose  I'm  kind  of  useful  in  the  scheme 
some  ways  or  they'd  tie  a  can  to  me." 

"  In  Millionaire  Row,  the  way  I  figure  it,"  says  I 
to  him,  "  the  Wisners  is  the  king  bees  ?  " 

He  nods. 

"  I'm  afraid  that's  about  the  truth.  At  least  that's 
the  way  they  think  it  is  —  the  old  man  and  the  old  lady. 
Folks  that  don't  swing  in  line  with  their  ways  they  get 
froze  out." 

86 


WHAT  THEIR  HIRED  MAN  DONE 

"Is  that  so?"  says  I,  getting  hot  under  the  collar 
right  away.  "  Well,  let  me  tell  you  something : 
When  it  comes  to  playing  any  kind  of  freeze-out,  where 
Old  Man  Wright  is  concerned,  believe  me,  there's  two 
sides  to  that  game.  Do  you  see?  " 

I  looked  straight  at  him,  and  I  went  on : 

"  Nobody  ever  seen  Old  Man  Wright  weaken  in 
nothing  he  once  begun.  As  for  money,  he  can't  be 
making  less  than  a  million  a  month  or  so  right  here  in 
this  town  where  he  is  now.  He's  one  of  them  kind 
that  does." 

"  I  believe  you,"  says  he.  "  Was  you  saying  that 
your  folks  used  to  own  the  Circle  Arrow  Ranch  out  in 
Wyoming  ?  " 

"  Uh-huh ;  and  I  wisht  we  did  right  now." 

"  That's  funny,"  says  he.  "  And  you  sold  it  to  a 
syndicate  ?  " 

"  Uh-huh  —  damn  'em!" 

"  And  Old  Man  Wisner  was  one  of  the  silent  part- 
ners and  one  of  the  biggest  owners  in  that  syndicate  — 
colonization  and  irrigation.  There  ain't  anything  that 
he  won't  go  against  that  there's  money  in,  and  he 
mostly  wins,"  says  he. 

"  Well,  what  do  you  know  about  that ! "  says  I. 
"  Us  moving  in  here  and  living  right  next  door  to  him 
—  that's  the  funniest  thing  I  ever  did  hear.  They 
shore  was  on  opposite  sides  of  that  game,  wasn't  they, 

87 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


thwn  two  folks  ?  Well,  Old  Man  Wisner  got  the  worst 
of  it  —  that's  all.  You  can't  raise  nothing  on  that 
land  except  cows  and  he'll  find  it  out.  We  got  some 
of  our  deferred  payments  coming  in,  like  enough; 
but  it  wouldn't  surprise  me  if  we  got  all  that  land  back 
sometime,  and  I  shore  hope  we  do." 

He  kind  of  puckers  up  his  mouth  and  puts  his  fingers 
on  it. 

"  By  Jove !  "  says  he.  "  By  Jove !  Would  you  give 
me  a  job  cowpunching,  Curly?  "  says  he. 

"  Not  unless  you  could  rope  better  then  than  you  can 
now,"  says  I.  "  And  if  you  can't  ride  a  horse  any 
better  than  you  can  a  boat  I  don't  think  you  could  earn 
your  board." 

He  took  it  all  right,  and  only  laughed. 

I  went  up  through  the  boathouse  and  the  garridge 
and  up  the  back  steps  into  the  little  portico  —  sort  of 
storm  door  that's  over  the  back  door  of  our  house 
where  it  looks  out  over  the  lake.  If  you'll  believe  me, 
there  was  Bonnie  Bell  standing  there,  all  in  her  bathing 
clothes!  She  hadn't  gone  in  yet. 

"Has  he  gone,  Curly?"  says  she. 

"  He  has  just  went,"  says  I.  "  What  are  you  doing 
here,  all  wet  ?  Why  didn't  you  go  in  right  away  ?  " 

"Is  he  all  right,  Curly?"  says  she,  sort  of  rolling 
her  hair  up  off  her  neck  and  into  her  rubber  cap. 

"Yes,"  says  I;  "he  ain't  hurt  none." 

88 


WHAT  THEIR  HIRED  MAN  DONE 

"What  were  you  talking  about  so  long?"  says 
she. 

"  A  good  many  things  —  you,  for  instance,"  I  says 
to  her. 

"  What  did  he  say?  "  she  ast  of  me. 

"  Why,  nothing  much ;  only  how  sorry  he  was  you 
saved  his  life." 

"Sorry  — why?" 

"Well,  it  makes  a  man  feel  mighty  mean  to  have 
a  woman  save  his  life." 

"  Did  he  say  that  ?  "  she  says  to  me.  Now  when 
Bonnie  Bell  smiles  she  sort  of  has  a  dimple  here  and 
there.  She  sort  of  smiled  now.  "  What  kept  you  out 
there  so  long?  You  two  people  was  talking  like  two 
old  women." 

"  Well,"  I  says,  "  I  was  just  promising  to  show  him 
how  to  rope;  he  says  he  wants  to  learn." 

"  When  are  you  going  to  show  him,  Curly?  " 

"  Oh,  sometime  some  morning,  like  enough,  down 
there  on  the  dock.  He  says  he'll  sneak  over  from  his 
place,  so  no  one  will  see  him.  I  don't  reckon  your  pa 
will  mind  my  showing  a  young  fellow  how  to  rope  — 
I'd  like  to  feel  a  rope  in  my  hand  again  anyhow.  I 
expect  before  long  he'll  be  wearing  a  wide  hat  and 
singing  '  O,  bury  me  not  on  the  lone  prairee ! ' 

"  Curly,"  says  she. 

"What?" 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


"  Did  you  find  my  rope  in  along  with  those  in  the 
big  room?  I  forget  whether  I  brought  it  along." 

"  Kid,"  says  I,  "  if  there's  going  to  be  any  instruction 
to  hired  men  on  the  rope  or  mouth  organ  or  jew's-harp, 
or  anything  of  that  sort,  it's  me  that  gives  it.  I'm 
segundo  on  this  ranch.  Now  you  go  on  upstairs." 

She  had  her  hair  all  pushed  back  now  under  her  cap, 
wet  as  it  was,  standing  there  fixing  it.  She  was  in  her 
bathing  clothes  still  and  awful  wet,  but  she  didn't  seem 
cold.  She  looked  kind  of  pink  and  sort  of  happy;  I 
don't  know  why.  Lord,  she  was  a  fine-looking  girl! 
There  never  was  one  handsomer  than  Bonnie  Bell 
Wright. 

"  Kid,  you  heard  me ! "  says  I.  "  Go  on  upstairs 
now  and  get  your  clothes  on.  And  you  don't  go  out  in 
that  boat  no  more ! " 


VIII 

HOW   OLD   MAN   WRIGHT  DONE   BUSINESS 

AS  the  weather  begun  to  get  warmer  and  we  got 
out-of-doors  more,  it  was  cheer  fuller  around 
our  place.     Bonnie  Bell  chirked  up  quite  a  bit. 
She  used  to  sing  some.     It  seemed  like  she  was  going 
to  get  used  to  living  in  town  —  not  me;  never! 

But  Old  Man  Wright  didn't  seem  to  worry  none 
somehow.  He  was  one  of  the  sort  that,  put  him  down 
anywheres  and  he'd  be  busy  at  something.  If  he  was 
set  down  on  a  sand  bar  beside  a  creek  he'd  reach  around 
to  find  some  sticks;  and,  first  thing  you  know,  he'd 
be  building  a  house  out  of  'em  —  he  just  always  was 
making  things  somehow.  I  never  seen  a  man  could 
size  up  a  piece  of  country  for  what  it  would  perduce 
better  than  him. 

"  Curly,"  says  he  to  me  one  day  when  I  was  down  in 
his  new  office  and  he  was  talking  about  making  money, 
"  there's  different  ways  of  getting  rich,"  says  he,  "  but 
only  one  system.  Either  get  what  a  mighty  few  thinks 
they  got  to  have  —  that's  things  for  rich  folks ;  or  else 
get  something  that  everybody  has  got  to  have  whether 
they  want  it  or  not  —  that's  things  for  poor  folks. 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


And  when  you're  in  the  game  you  buy  when  things  is 
low  and  sell  when  they  is  high.  Nigh  about  every 
man  you  know  plays  the  game  just  the  other  way 
around.  That's  why  there's  so  many  poor  folks,"  says 
he.  "  Yet  the  game  is  plumb  easy  to  beat  when  you 
know  how,  if  making  money  is  all  you  care  about. 

"  For  instance,"  says  he,  "  when  I  bought  that  bunch 
of  stock  in  the  Lake  Electric  a  while  ago  it  was  when 
nobody  wanted  it  or  let  on  they  wanted  it.  Since  then 
it  has  riz  round  fifteen  or  twenty  points  and  it'll  go 
higher.  When  I  sold  the  Circle  Arrow  it  was  when 
them  folks  wanted  it  right  bad.  Between  you  and  me, 
them  people  paid  more  for  it  than  it  was  worth.  I 
may  buy  it  in  some  day  when  they  don't  want  it  no 
more." 

"  You  reckon  you  ever  will,  Colonel  ?  "  says  I,  plumb 
happy  to  think  of  that. 

"  If  I  was  alone  in  the  world,  with  just  you,  I  shorely 
would  right  off,"  says  he,  "  no  matter  what  it  cost. 
With  Bonnie  Bell  in  the  game,  too,  I  don't  know  what 
I'll  do  nor  when  I'll  do  it. 

"  I  don't  have  such  a  hard  time  here,"  he  went  on 
after  a  while.  "  For  instance,  just  a  few  weeks  ago 
I  was  reading  in  the  papers  about  this  war  in  Europe 
—  which  is  a  shame  and  a  awful  thing;  and  I  hope  it 
won't  come  here,  though  if  it  does  you  and  me  are  in," 
says  he.  "  Well,  I  seen  how  they  make  so  much  pow- 

92 


HOW  WRIGHT  DONE  BUSINESS 

der  and  sell  it  —  smokeless  powder.  For  that  they 
have  to  use  a  awful  lot  of  picric  acid." 

"  What  kind  of  acid  ?  "  says  I.     "  Pickles  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  says  he.  "  I  wouldn't  know  it  if  it 
was  on  a  plate  —  only  I  know  they  have  to  make 
smokeless  powder  out  of  it.  So  I  bought  all  I  could 
find  laying  round  here  or  there  —  not  very  much ;  only 
two  or  three  hundred  thousand  dollars'  worth. 

"  Well,"  says  he,  stretching  out  his  legs  and  yawning, 
"  it's  the  same  old  story,  Curly.  I  couldn't  help  it  and 
I  didn't  mean  to  do  it  the  least  way  in  the  world ;  but 
now  this  here  picric  acid  —  whatever  it  is  —  it's  worth 
two  or  three  times  what  it  was  just  a  little  while  ago. 
I  cleaned  up  —  oh,  maybe  two  or  three  hundred  thou- 
sand dollars  on  that.  There  ain't  enough  in  these 
things  to  keep  me  very  busy.  I  don't  care  for  making 
money  nohow,  because  it's  so  easy.  If  there  was  a 
real  man's  game  now,  I  wouldn't  mind  mixing  with 
it." 

"  Cows  is  something  that  folks  has  to  have  whether 
they  are  rich  or  poor,"  says  I  to  him. 

"Shore;  and  it's  a  good  game  too.  If  you  look 
around  you'll  find  that  there  is  some  things  that  every- 
body has  got  to  use  somehow,  somewhere  —  wood, 
copper,  oil,  iron;  things  like  that.  You  can't  build 
houses  and  live  in  'em  unless  you  have  some  of  them 
things.  Everybody  has  to  buy  'em  in  wholesale  or  in 

93 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


retail.     I  like  to  buy  'em  a  little  farther  back  even 
than  wholesale  —  when  they  are  what  you  call  raw 


resources. 
it 


If  you  take  things  that's  made  up  in  packages  you 
can  sell  them  too,  a  little  at  a  time,  but  slow.  Some 
folks  likes  to  trade  that  way ;  they  got  to  have  pictures 
—  objects  —  right  before  'em  to  believe  their  money's 
safe.  That's  a  little  slow  for  me  and  you,  Curly.  I 
like  to  take  the  goods  before  they  are  put  up  in  pack- 
ages and  buy  a  lot  of  them  —  something  that  folks 
has  got  to  have." 

"  That's  where  your  game  is  weak,  Colonel,"  says 
I.  "  For  instance,  you  deal  in  cows  on  the  hoof. 
That  ain't  respectable.  When  you  cut  up  cows  and 
hogs  into  sides,  hams  and  sausage,  then's  when  you  get 
respectable.  Ain't  you  got  plenty  proof  of  that? 
Look  at  them  Wisners,  for  instance." 

He  snorts  at  that  and  ain't  happy. 

"  Well,  it's  the  truth,"  says  I.  "  Look  at  us!  We 
ain't  nobody  here.  Old  Man  Wisner's  the  king  bee  of 
this  here  row  of  houses.  We  ain't  one-two-ten  in  this 
race." 

"  Huh !  Is  that  so  ?  I'm  running  free,  under  a 
pull;  and  you  can't  kick.  But  then,  we're  having  all 
the  fun  —  not  Bonnie  Bell." 

"  I  ain't  having  no  fun  worth  speaking  of  myself," 
says  I.  "  But  she's  doing  well  enough  —  she's  dis- 

94 


HOW  WRIGHT  DONE  BUSINESS 

gusting  healthy  —  sounder  in  wind  and  limb  than  any- 
body else  in  this  town.  And  she's  busy  too;  she's 
found  a  new  kind  of  car  that  she  says  she's  got  to  have. 
She  says  the  Wisners  bought  one  a  little  shinier  than 
hers." 

"  Well,  she  can  have  whatever  she  wants.  We  are 
doing  pretty  well,  seems  like.  I  just  went  into  a  little 
speculation  last  week  that  will  maybe  pay  for  that  new 
car." 

"  What's  it  about  this  time,  Colonel?  "  I  ast  him. 

"  Well,  it  has  something  more  to  do  with  this  here 
war.  Whenever  there  is  a  war  somebody  makes 
money  and  everybody  loses  it.  Now  you  see  they're 
using  a  awful  lot  of  sharonel  over  there  —  bullets 
packed  up  in  packages  ready  to  be  busted  open.  It 
takes  a  certain  kind  of  lathe  to  turn  them  sharpnel, 
and  there  is  only  one  kind  of  lathe  in  this  country  that 
does  it  faster  than  any  other ;  and  the  people  that  makes 
sharpnel  can't  get  enough  of  them.  Well,  I  bought  the 
control  of  that  there  lathe.  Looking  around  not  long 
ago,  I  found  a  little  stove  factory  down  in  the  sand 
hills;  and  I  bought  it  and  put  a  few  of  them  lathes 
in  there  and  started  a  little  company. 

"  Besides,  I  control  them  lathes  that  goes  into  all 
the  other  factories  where  they  make  sharpnel. 
Shouldn't  wonder  if  we'd  run  into  a  little  money  before 
long  —  enough  to  buy  a  car  —  five  hundred  thousand 

95 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 

dollars  or  so.  If  they  got  to  have  sharpnel  I  suppose 
we  might  as  well  make  'em  and  make  'em  good." 

"  Well,  Colonel,"  says  I,  "  I  hope  you'll  find  enough 
to  do,  so  that  one  of  these  days  you  can  be  right  com- 
fortable." 

"  So  do  I,"  says  he,  and  he  sticks  out  his  legs  again, 
with  his  hands  in  his  pockets.  "  But  sometimes  I  al- 
most lose  heart  about  it.  Things  looks  mighty  sad  to 
me,  because  I  can't  find  no  game  that's  interesting  for 
to  play." 

"  How  about  that  running- for-alderman  business?  " 
says  I. 

"  I'm  looking  that  over,"  says  he.  "  I  know  a  good 
many  of  the  fellows  over  on  the  west  side  of  our  ward. 
My  freckles  helps  me  some  in  that  part  of  the  ward. 
They  can't  look  at  freckles  like  mine  and  call  me  any- 
thing but  a  honest  man.  Our  ward  is  in  two  parts, 
and  a  little  wears  silk  socks  and  a  good  deal  of  it  don't. 
Wisner,  he's  strong  with  them  that  does.  He  maybe 
ain't  so  strong  with  them  that  makes  eight  dollars  a 
week.  Maybe  none  of  them  works  for  Wisner,  but 
plenty  of  other  people  that  works  for  eight  dollars  a 
week  does  work  for  him." 

"  He  shore  makes  plenty  of  money,"  says  I. 
"  I  expect  he's  got  more  money  than  anybody  in 
town." 

"  I'm  willing  to  stack  up  a  little  money  in  this  alder- 

96 


HOW  WRIGHT  DONE  BUSINESS 

man  game  against  him  if  I  thought  I'd  get  any  fun  out 
of  it.  I'm  just  marking  time  here,  the  way  it  is." 

"  Doing  what  ?  "  I  ast  him. 

"  Making  money  and  waiting." 

"  What  for?"  says  I,  not  understanding. 

"  For  some  man,"  says  he. 

"  What  man  ?  "  I  ast  him,  still  not  understanding. 

"  That's  what  I  don't  know.  For  some  man  that 
will  make  Bonnie  Bell  happy.  But  all  the  young  men 
in  a  city  talk  alike  and  look  alike  and  dress  alike.  I 
ain't  seen  more  than  one  or  two  that  was  worth  a  cuss 
—  not  a  one  I  thought  was  good  enough  for  my  girl. 
And  yet  it  stands  to  reason  that  something  will  hap- 
pen; and  it  might  be  any  time.  It  makes  me  uneasy." 

I  couldn't  see  why  more  folks  didn't  come  into  our 
house,  like  they  used  to  out  on  the  Circle  Arrow ;  and 
I  said  that. 

"  It's  easy  to  see  why  they  don't,"  says  Old  Man 
Wright,  and  he  busts  the  glass  top  of  his  table  with  his 
fist.  "  It's  plumb  plain  to  see  why.  It's  them  Wisners 
has  blocked  our  game.  They  coppered  us  from  the 
start  —  that's  what!  We  got  in  wrong  at  the  start 
with  them ;  we  didn't  kotow  to  them  and  they've  always 
been  expecting  it." 

"  That  puts  us  in  pretty  hard,"  says  I. 

"  It  wouldn't  be  hard  for  you  or  me,  Curly,"  says  he. 
"  There  ain't  a  game  on  earth  that  that  pie- faced  old 

97 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


hypocrite  can  play  that  I  can't  beat  him  at ;  I  don't  fear 
him  no  more  than  I  like  him.  But  when  I  see  how 
easy  it  was  for  him  and  his  folks  to  make  my  girl 

miserable It  ain't  on  account  of  myself,  Curly," 

says  he,  and  he  sweeps  his  hand  over  the  desk  and 
knocks  every  paper  and  everything  else  on  the  floor. 
"  She's  all  I  got,"  says  he.  "  I  loved  her  ma  and  I 
love  her.  Whatever  goes  against  her  happiness  goes 
against  me  all  the  way  through.  And,"  says  he,  "  I'll 
buck  this  here  city  game  until  some  day  I  bust  the 
bank!" 

I  left  him  setting  there,  sort  of  looking  down  at  his 
feet,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  his  legs  stretched 
out.  He  wasn't  happy  none  at  all,  though  all  the  time 
he'd  been  hollering  for  some  game  that  he  couldn't 
beat. 


IX 

US   AND   THEIR   FENCE 

WE  went  on  thataway  a  good  while  into  the 
summer  and  nothing  much  happened  be- 
tween   us    and    our    neighbors.     Maybe 
once  in  a  while  our  dog  Peanut  would  get  over  in  their 
back  yard  and  scratch  up  their  pansies.     Peanut  always 
liked  to  lay  in  fresh  dirt,  and  he  seemed  to  know  in- 
stinctive which  was  our  pansy  beds  and  which  was 
theirn.     Their  hired  man  only  laughed  when  I  seen 
him  and  apologized. 

He  used  to  come  over  once  in  a  while,  their  hired 
man  did,  and  meet  me  on  the  dock  back  of  the  boat- 
house,  where  I  give  him  lessons  in  roping.  I  showed 
him  a  few  things  —  how  to  let  go  when  he  got  his  rope 
straight,  and  to  give  hisself  plenty  of  double  back 
of  the  hondoo.  We  used  to  rope  the  snubbing  posts 
where  we  tied  the  boats.  Sometimes  we'd  practice 
for  a  hour  or  so  and  he  begun  to  get  on  right  well. 
We  visited  that  way  several  days,  usual  of  morn- 
ings. 

"  Don't  the  lady  ever  come  down  to  the  boats  no 
more  ?  "  says  he  one  time. 

99 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


"  No,"  says  I.  "  Her  pa's  afraid  she'll  get 
drownded." 

"Does  she  ever  talk  about  saving  the  life  of  any- 
body ?  "  he  ast. 

"  No,"  I  says ;  "  she's  used  to  such  things.  She 
don't  take  no  account  anyways  of  saving  the  life  of  a 
laboring  man,"  says  I.  "  It's  nothing  to  her." 

"  Ain't  it  funny,"  says  he,  "  how  things  work  out 
sometimes  ?  At  first,  you  know,  I  thought  she  was  one 
of  your  housemaids." 

"  You  done  what  ?  "  says  I. 

"  Well,  I  don't  deny  it.  When  I  first  seen  her  in 
the  yard,  the  time  she  chased  that  dog  over,  I  thought 
she  was  one  of  the  maids  —  you  see,  she  had  on  a  cap 
and  a  apern.  I  didn't  know  at  all.  The  old  lady 
thinks  it  yet." 

"  She's  mighty  kind-hearted,  even  with  the  lower 
classes,"  says  I.  "  She  even  gives  money  to  them  peo- 
ple that  play  music  in  front  of  our  house  every  morn- 
ing. I  wish  they  wouldn't." 

"  I  wish  she  wouldn't  do  that,"  says  he.  "  We  have 
a  awful  time  with  that  band.  The  old  man  said  if  he 
ever  got  to  be  alderman  he'd  get  a  ordinance  through 
abolishing  them  off  the  streets.  They  play  something 
fierce !  "  says  he. 

"  Is  he  going  to  run  for  alderman  ?  "  says  I.  "  I 
seen  something  in  the  papers  about  it." 

joo 


US  AND  THEIR  FENCE 

"  Well,  yes ;  I  believe  he  will  —  I  heard  him  say  he 
would." 

"  If  he  does,"  says  I,  "  I  reckon  hell  will  pop  in  this 
ward." 

"Why?"  says  he. 

"  Well,  my  boss  is  figuring  he  may  run  for  alderman 
hisself  —  he's  naturalized  here  now.  He  used  to  be 
sher'f  out  in  Cody  whenever  he  wanted  to  be.  When 
he  wants  anything,  seems  like  he  can't  hardly  help  get- 
ting it.  It's  a  way  he  has." 

He  looks  kind  of  thoughtful  at  that. 

"  Well,  now,"  says  he,  "  well  now,  what  do  you  know 
about  that !  As  you  say,  Curly,  ain't  that  hell  ?  " 

He  swore  so  easy  and  natural  that  I  kind  of  liked 
him,  and  the  way  he  taken  up  roping  was  to  my  think- 
ing about  the  best  of  any  tenderfoot  I  ever  seen. 

"  What  are  they  piling  up  them  rocks  along  the  side 
of  the  yard  for,  Jimmie  ?  "  I  ast  him  after  a  while. 

You  see,  there  was  several  wagonloads  of  brick  and 
stuff  had  been  put  in  there  that  morning. 

"  I  don't  know,"  says  he.  "  Something  the  old  man 
ordered,  I  reckon.  He's  away  right  now.  They  don't 
always  tell  me  about  things  as  much  as  I  think  they 
might." 

"  I've  often  wondered  they  didn't  fire  you,"  says 
I. 

"  They  can't,"  says  iie.  "  I  told  you  I've  got  too 
101 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


much  on  'em.  They  don't  dast  to  fire  me  none  at  all. 
I  defy  'em!  "  says  he. 

"  Well,  you  better  be  a  little  careful,"  says  I.  "  I've 
seen  people  felt  that  way  about  their  boss  before  now, 
and  right  often  they  got  the  can.  You  better  not  get 
fired  till  you  know  a  little  bit  more  about  roping  and 
riding." 

"  Hush !  "  says  he.  "  I  think  I  heard  someone  over 
in  our  boathouse.  Good-by!  I'll  come  round  again 
tomorrow  morning." 

He  went  on  down  the  dock  into  their  boathouse.  I 
set  down  not  far  from  the  door,  smoking  and  looking 
out  over  the  lake.  I  heard  someone  in  there  begin  to 
talk.  It  was  him  and  Old  Lady  Wisner  —  I'd  heard 
her  before  once  in  a  while.  I  couldn't  help  hearing 
them  if  I'd  wanted  to,  and  I  did  want  to. 

"James,"  says  she,  "where  have  you  been?  I've 
been  looking  everywhere  for  you." 

"  Why,  nowhere  especial,"  says  he  carelesslike.  "  I 
was  just  over  on  the  dock  doing  some  roping  stunts 
with  Curly." 

"  I  suppose  you  mean  that  red-headed,  pigeon-toed 
brute  that  hangs  around  the  Wrights'  place,"  says  she. 

Say,  when  she  said  that  I  half  riz  up,  for  I  shore 
was  mad.  I  may  be  the  way  she  said,  but  I  don't  allow 
no  one  else  to  say  so.  But  she  wasn't  a  man  anyway  ; 
so  I  had  to  stand  it.  I  read  somewhere  in  a  book  it 

102 


US  AND  THEIR  FENCE 

ain't  correct  to  listen  when  folks  don't  know  you're 
hearing  them;  but  that  didn't  go  with  me  no  more, 
especial  when  people  was  talking  about  me  and  my  hair 
and  legs  thataway.  So  I  set  down  and  listened  some 
more. 

"  Well,"  says  Jimmie,  "  I  haven't  ever  noticed  that 
at  all.  But  he's  a  good  scout  and  I  like  him,"  says  he. 

That  made  me  feel  just  a  little  easier  anyways. 

"  Well,  it's  no  matter  what  you  were  doing  over 
there,"  says  she  vicious.  "  You're  not  to  have  nothing 
more  to  do  with  such  can-nye  no  more.  Why  can't 
you  attend  to  your  own  business  ?  " 

"  I'm  just  going  to,"  says  he.  "  You  ain't  ast  my 
consent  about  mussing  up  my  flower  beds.  What's  all 
that  rock  and  brick  doing  up  in  the  yard  ?  "  Say,  he 
was  a  sassy  one ! 

"  Since  you  ast  me,  I'll  tell  you.  It's  a  fence  we're 
going  to  build." 

"A  fence?"  says  he.  "We  got  a  perfectly  good 
fence  now." 

"  Oh,  have  we?  Well,  it  ain't  high  enough  to  keep 
out  our  people  from  mixing  with  them  can-nye."  I 
wondered  again  what  can-nye  was.  "  I'll  not  have  you 
talking  with  their  maids." 

"  Is  that  so?  "  says  he.  "  I  hadn't  noticed  much  of 
that  going  on  lately,"  says  he.  "  I  wish  it  was." 

"  James ! "  says  she,  so  mad  she  couldn't  hardly 
103 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


speak.  "  James ! "  And  about  all  she  could  do  was 
to  guggle  in  her  throat  and  say :  "  James !  " 

"  Well,"  says  I  to  myself,  "  here's  where  he  gets  the 
can  tied  to  him,  all  right.  It  don't  stand  to  reason 
she'll  allow  that  kind  of  talk." 

Well  now,  they  was  talking  about  that  fence.  In 
two  or  three  days  it  was  easy  enough  to  see  what  the 
Wisners  was  going  to  do:  They  was  going  to  cut 
out  the  herd  law  and  fence  in  their  own  range. 

It  wasn't  a  fence  at  all.  It  was  a  wall  they  built, 
day  after  day  —  a  regular  wall!  Pretty  soon  it  was 
up  as  high  as  our  second-story  window,  and  it  keep  on 
a-going.  It  took  them  weeks  to  finish  it.  When  it 
was  done  it  run  clean  from  the  sidewalk  back  to  their 
boathouse.  From  our  side,  on  the  ground,  you  couldn't 
only  see  the  top  of  their  house,  and  from  their  side 
you  couldn't  only  see  the  top  of  ours. 

Well,  anyway,  the  wall  went  up  and  we  didn't  stop 
it,  because  we  couldn't.  It  was  like  we  was  living  in 
two  different  worlds,  with  that  wall  between  us,  and 
that  was  the  way  they  meant  it.  Nothing  could  cross 
from  one  side  to  the  other.  It  was  the  coldest  deal 
I  ever  seen  one  set  of  folks  give  another.  And  why? 
I  couldn't  figure  why. 

Bonnie  Bell  was  right  still  and  quiet.  Old  Man 
Wright  he  went  around  thoughtful  for  quite  a  while. 
He  seen  this  was  a  insult  put  on  him,  but  he  didn't 

104 


US  AND  THEIR  FENCE 

know  what  to  do.  At  last  he  goes  to  Bonnie  Bell  one 
day,  and  says  he: 

"  Sis,  it's  coming  along  kind  of  hot  in  the  summer. 
How'd  you  like  to  go  to  White  Sulphur  or  somewheres 
for  a  few  months?  "  says  he.  "  You're  looking  kind 
of  pale  now  for  the  last  few  weeks,"  says  he,  "  and  I 
don't  like  to  see  it." 

She  turns  and  looks  at  him  square  in  the  eyes  for  a 
minute,  and  pointed  out  the  window. 

"  With  that  thing  going  on  ?  "  says  she.  "  I'll  see 
them  damned  first ! "  says  she. 

That  was  the  first  time  I  ever  heard  Bonnie  Bell 
cuss.  I  liked  her  for  saying  it,  and  so  did  her  pa. 

"  It's  a  hard  game  we  got  to  play,  sis,"  says  he ; 
"  but  we'll  play  it." 

She  nods,  and  we  let  it  go  at  that. 

That  fence  ruined  the  street,  as  far  as  our  end  of  it 
was  concerned.  Them  that  lived  north  of  it  could 
look  on  up  the  lake  for  quite  a  ways,  but  for  more  than 
a  quarter  of  a  mile  down  toward  the  park  there  couldn't 
nobody  see  down  that  part  of  the  street  at  all.  The 
papers  got  to  talking  about  it,  and  some  complaints 
was  printed  too.  Old  Man  Wright  he  only  sort  of 
laughed.  The  papers  made  fun  of  the  Wisners  lor 
building  that  fence  —  sort  of  treating  the  whole  thing 
like  a  joke. 

About  now  the  campaign  for  alderman  got  busier. 
105 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


Old  Man  Wright  printed  a  full  page  in  all  the  papers, 
with  a  picture  of  hisself,  and  saying  that  J.  W.  Wright 
was  running  for  alderman  in  that  ward.  Right  oppo- 
site his  full-page  ad  was  about  six  or  eight  inches,  with 
a  smaller  picture  of  Old  Man  Wisner  with  it;  and  he 
said  that  Mr.  David  Abraham  Wisner  begged  to  submit 
his  name  as  a  candidate  for  the  sufferedges  for  alder- 
man in  that  ward.  I  didn't  know  what  sufferedges 
was  at  first,  but  I  knew  what  my  boss  was  out  after  — 
it  was  votes,  and  he  was  liable  to  get  'em. 

From  that  time  on  the  boss  was  busier  than  he  had 
been  before.  He  got  better  acquainted  over  on  the 
west  side  of  our  ward.  Sometimes  he  wouldn't  get 
back  till  midnight,  but  he  always  come  home  under  his 
own  steam.  In  his  office  I  saw  all  sorts  of  people. 
He  seemed  to  take  to  this  alderman  business  natural. 

Anyways  he  was  a  hard  man  to  buck  in  any  kind  of 
a  game.  He  had  his  own  idea  all  the  time  maybe 
about  that  fence  in  Millionaire  Row.  One  day  he 
taken  a  little  pasear  down  the  lake  front  toward  the 
head  of  the  park,  where  there  was  some  vacant  land 
below  us.  He  was  sizing  things  up.  Two  or  three 
weeks  after  he  told  me  he'd  bought  that  tract  —  the 
whole  works,  clear  down  to  the  end  of  the  park.  I 
don't  know  what  he  paid  for  it,  but  it  must  have  been 
a  lot  of  money. 

"  You  see,"  says  he,  "  all  them  people  up  there  north 
106 


US  AND  THEIR  FENCE 

of  us  on  the  row  they  ain't  got  only  a  little  bit  of  land 
for  their  houses.  Me,  I'm  going  to  have  a  place  with 
half  a  mile  or  so  of  ground  to  it.  Bonnie  Bell  has  got 
to  have  a  place  to  herself  for  to  raise  crocuses  and 
other  flowers,"  says  he,  "  and  to  cultivate  her  Boston 
dog." 

It  was  kind  of  hard  times  right  then  and  a  good 
many  men  was  out  of  work.  Old  Man  Wright  put 
a  lot  of  'em  to  work  on  his  new  Bonnie  Bell  Addition, 
as  he  called  it.  He  dug  it  up  and  smoothed  it  down 
and  laid  it  out,  and  planted  it  with  trees  and  sodded  it. 
And  then,  down  at  the  far  end  of  it,  he  just  puts  up  a 
high  wall  like  the  Wisners',  but  'way  off  from  it. 
Then  we  dug  down  along  the  Wisner  wall. 

Folks  used  to  go  along  and  wonder  what  it  was  done 
for  and  who  done  it.  And  later  on  some  folks  farther 
up  the  drive  allowed  it  was  some  kind  of  a  new  Italian 
garden  and  some  of  them  begun  to  put  up  them  walls 
too.  It  got  right  fashionable.  The  whole  looks  of  that 
part  of  town  was  changed.  But,  while  they  had  little 
bits  of  yards  you  couldn't  swing  a  cat  in,  we  had  land 
enough  to  start  a  hay  ranch  if  we  had  of  wanted  to. 

"  I  can  afford  it,"  says  Old  Man  Wright. 

And  by  the  time  he  had  the  improvements  started  the 
real-estate  men  come  and  pestered  him  to  take  at  least 
three  times  as  much  money  as  he  give  for  it. 

"  I  may  sell  it  sometime,"  says  he,  "  but  not  now," 
107 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


says  he.  "  I  like  it.  My  girl  likes  to  raise  crocuses, 
and  what  she  likes  she  gets.  We're  going  to  raise 
plenty  of  crocuses  and  tulips  and  hollyhocks,"  says 
he. 

It  wouldn't  be  right  to  say  Bonnie  Bell  didn't  have 
no  friends.  Once  there  come  quite  a  bunch  of  girls 
from  out  of  town  —  girls  she  had  knew  in  Smith's; 
and  they  had  quite  a  visit.  They  tore  up  the  house 
and  for  a  week  or  so  Bonnie  Bell  was  right  happy ;  but 
by  and  by  they  went  away  again.  Then  nobody  come 
into  our  place,  the  sort  we  wanted  to  come. 

There  was  one  man  come  to  call  on  us  —  it  was 
Henderson,  of  our  old  hotel.  We  used  to  go  down 
there  and  eat  sometimes,  and  every  time  we  done  so 
he'd  come  to  stand  around.  He  couldn't  keep  his  eyes 
off  Bonnie  Bell.  I  reckon  he  was  about  forty  years 
old. 

Now  one  day  he  come  up  to  our  house  in  the  after- 
noon all  dressed  up,  with  a  white  flower  in  his  coat  and 
a  high  hat  on,  and  shiny  shoes,  and  he  ast  for  Old 
Man  Wright;  and  William  showed  him  into  the  back 
parlor.  I  was  setting  in  our  ranch  room,  so  I  could 
hear  what  went  on  —  I  couldn't  very  well  help  it.  I 
heard  what  Mr.  Henderson  said;  so  I  knowed  what 
brought  him  there  all  dressed  up. 

"  Mr.  Wright,"  says  he,  "  I  won't  waste  time.  I'm 
used  to  doing  business  in  a  direct  way.  So  today  I 

108 


US  AND  THEIR  FENCE 

come  down  —  I  come  down  —  that  is  to  say,  I  come 
today "  says  he. 

"  Well,  for  a  direct  man,  you're  taking  some  time 
to  say  what  you  want  to  say,"  says  Old  Man  Wright ; 
"  but  maybe  I  can  guess  it  if  you  can't  say  it.  It's  my 
girl  you  come  to  talk  about?  " 

I  didn't  hear  him  say  anything,  but  I  guess  he  must 
have  nodded. 

"You  want  to  ast  me?"  says  Old  Man  Wright 
"  Why  didn't  you  ast  her?  " 

"  I  thought  it  better  to  see  if  you  would  consider 
me  as  a  suitor,  sir,"  says  he.  "  It  seemed  a  fairer 
thing." 

"  I  don't  know  as  a  parent  ought  to  consider  any 
man  that  would  ast  him  first,"  says  Old  Man  Wright 
thoughtful;  "but  in  some  ways  you're  a  good  man, 
and  square  and  successful." 

"My  profession  —  my  business  —  being  an  inn- 
keeper isn't  exactly  the  highest  form  of  business " 

"  Hell !  That's  got  nothing  to  do  with  it,"  says  Old 
Man  Wright.  "  I  imagine  my  girl  might  marry  most 
any  kind  of  man  if  he  was  the  right  sort.  But  now 
let's  figure  on  this,  Mr.  Henderson,"  says  he,  "  because 
I  like  you.  You're  some  older  than  she  is." 

"  Yes,"  says  he ;  "  old  enough  to  know  a  splendid 
woman  like  Miss  Wright  when  I  see  her.  In  my  busi- 
ness I've  seen  plenty  that  ain't." 

109 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


"  That's  good,"  says  Old  Man  Wright.  "  I  like  to 
hear  you  say  that.  I  don't  blame  you  for  feeling  the 
way  you  do.  And  I  feel  kind  to  you  too,  sir.  You're 
the  first  man  that  ever  said  a  kind  word  to  me  and  my 
girl  in  this  town.  You're  almost  the  last,  as  far  as 
that  goes.  You're  as  good  as  us  and  we're  as  good 
as  you,  if  it  comes  to  that.  But  now  let's  figure  a 
little  further.  The  man  that  marries  my  girl,  marries 
her  —  there  ain't  a-going  to  be  no  divorce.  There  may 
be  a  funeral  if  there's  trouble,  but  there  ain't  going  to 
be  no  divorce  for  Bonnie  Bell.  It's  death  that's  going 
to  part  her  and  her  husband.  You  see  I  got  to  be  care- 
ful about  her,  don't  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  and  you  ought  to  be.  I  never  felt  my  years 
as  a  handicap." 

"  They  ain't,  in  business,"  says  Old  Man  Wright. 
"  But  now  look-a-here :  As  you  live  along  together 
she'll  be  still  young  when  you're  pretty  old.  Take  ten 
or  fifteen  years  off  of  you  and  ten  or  fifteen  thousand 
cocktails,  and  I'd  say  '  God  bless  you ! '  But  the  years 
and  the  cocktails  is  there  permanent.  You're  kind  of 
soft  around  the  stomach,  Mr.  Henderson,  I'm  sorry  to 
say.  Ain't  you  making  a  mistake  in  wanting  to  marry 
my  girl  at  all,  sir  ?  " 

I  don't  reckon  he  was  happy;  yet  he  certainly  was 
game. 

"  Mr.  Wright,"  says  he  at  last,  "  that's  why  I  come 
no 


US  AND  THEIR  FENCE 

to  you  first !  I  was  conscious  of  them  ten  million  cock- 
tails—  it's  nearer  ten  million  than  ten  thousand,  I 
reckon,  in  my  business.  It  seemed  to  me  fairer  to 
talk  to  you  first.  I'm  not  apt  to  forget  her  very  soon 
—  I'm  not  apt  to  look  at  any  woman  at  all.  I  reckon 
I  don't  want  to  get  married  if  I  can't  marry  her. 
Maybe  it  ain't  fair  for  a  man  at  my  time  of  life  and 
way  of  life  to  think  of  marrying  a  girl  like  her.  I 
reckon  I  been  selfish.  I  reckon  maybe  you  set  me 
right." 

"Where  did  you  come  from?"  says  Old  Man 
Wright. 

"  The  South,"  says  he. 

"  I  know  that ;  but  what  state  ?  " 

"  Kentucky,"  says  he.  "  I  been  living  here  a  great 
many  years." 

"  You're  a  gentleman,  Mr.  Henderson,"  says  Old 
Man  Wright.  "I  wisht  things  wasn't  just  the  way 
they  are.  But  now,  on  the  level,  do  you  think  we'd 
better  say  anything  to  Bonnie  Bell  at  all  about  this 
here?" 

Henderson  must  have  thought  it  over  quite  a  while. 
Then  I  heard  him  take  a  step  or  so.  Maybe  he  picked 
up  his  hat.  Maybe  his  cane  knocked  against  a  chair. 
Maybe  they  shook  hands. 

"  I  don't  want  to  do  anything  that  isn't  best  for  her," 
says  he  at  last.  "  I  reckon  maybe  I  ain't  a  good- 

iii 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


enough  man  to  marry  her.  I  reckon  maybe  you're 
right,  sir,"  says  he. 

Old  Man  Wright  he  don't  talk  no  more  for  a  little 
while.  I  heard  them  walk  toward  the  door. 

"  No,"  says  he  at  length.  "  Mr.  Henderson,  I  don't 
reckon  we'll  say  anything  about  this  to  Bonnie  Bell 
after  all.  Good-by,  sir.  I  wish  I  could  ast  you  to 
come  here  often." 

"  Good-by,"  says  he. 

I  seen  him  go  down  the  walk  after  a  while.  He 
forgot  all  about  his  car  waiting  by  the  sidewalk  and 
walked  half  a  block  before  he  come  to.  Of  course, 
he  couldn't  come  to  see  us  no  more  after  that. 

As  for  me,  I  didn't  have  no  friends  either.  Jimmie 
the  hired  man  was  about  the  only  friend  around  there 
I  cared  much  for,  and  now  he  was  gone  —  fired,  I 
supposed.  Times  got  even  lonesomer  than  ever. 

Bonnie  Bell  come  in  the  room  where  I  was  setting 
one  day,  and  she  set  down  on  the  lounge  and  put  her 
chin  in  her  hand  and  taken  a  look  out  the  window.  I 
ast  her  what  was  up. 

"  Well,"  says  she,  "  I  was  just  wondering  about  the 
seeds  for  them  big  flower  beds  we've  been  making," 
says  she.  "  I'll  be  wanting  to  plant  them  next  spring, 
at  least.  If  I  had  some  experienced  man  that  knew 
about  flowers  now " 

"  Why  don't  you  go  down  to  the  park,"  says  I, 
112 


US  AND  THEIR  FENCE 


"  and  talk  to  some  of  them  Dutch  gardeners  that  raises 
the  flower  beds  down  there?  They'll  know  all  about 
them  things,"  says  I. 

"  Curly,"  says  she,  "  you're  only  a  cowpuncher,  ain't 
you?" 

"  That's  all,"  says  I. 

"  Well,  that  accounts  for  you  not  having  no  sense  at 
all,"  says  she. 


X 

US  BEING  ALDERMAN 

REALLY,  that  fence  must  of  hurt  the  Wisners 
as  bad  as  it  done  anybody  else.  Us  having 
plenty  of  ground,  our  house  wasn't  built  so 
close  to  the  line  as  theirs  was.  The  fence  must  of  cut 
off  more  light  for  them  than  it  did  for  us.  Besides, 
when  you  looked  at  it  from  the  street,  unless  you  lived 
around  there  and  knowed  about  it,  you'd  of  thought  it 
was  us  built  that  fence  to  spite  them  and  not  them  to 
spite  us. 

Old  Man  Wright  was  running  on  what  they  called 
the  Independent  ticket  that  fall ;  there  was  three  parties 
and  the  town  was  all  tore  up.  Of  course  everybody 
knows  there  oughtn't  to  be  but  just  two  parties  —  Re- 
publicans and  Democrats.  Me  being  from  Texas, 
original,  I  don't  see  why  anybody  should  be  anything 
but  a  Democrat;  but  Old  Man  Wright  he  had  a  way 
of  picking  out  things. 

Well,  they  held  the  election  along  in  November.  I 
might  of  knowed  how  it  would  come  out.  They  ain't 
done  counting  all  the  Wright  votes  yet  over  in  that 
ward  of  ours.  At  about  half  past  six  they'd  had  time 

114 


US  BEING  ALDERMAN 


enough  to  count  all  the  sufferedges  that  Old  Man  Wis- 
ner  taken  down  in  the  silk-stocking  part  of  that 
ward. 

At  about  half  past  three  in  the  afternoon  the  papers 
come  out  with  bulletins  and  says  the  ward  was  "  con- 
ceded to  Wright."  I  should  say  it  was  conceded!  I 
conceded  it,  anyways,  as  soon  as  I  knowed  he  wanted 
to  run. 

Well,  sir,  it  was  more  like  old  times  then  than  we'd 
seen  since  we  moved  in  there  —  like  the  times  when  we 
was  sher'f  in  the  Yellow  Bull  country.  The  old  man 
he  come  in  a-laughing  along  about  suppertime  and  un- 
der his  own  steam,  and  says  he : 

"  Bonnie  Bell,  your  pa  is  going  to  be  high  in  the  na- 
tion's councils  right  soon,  because  he  is  going  to  be 
alderman  in  one  of  the  most  important  wards  in  this 
here  town.  I  may  be  mayor  some  day;  and  when 
you're  mayor  you're  due  to  chirk  up  and  think  of  being 
president  —  if  you  are  a  humorist.  Also,  your  pa  is 
hungry.  Please  get  Curly  and  me  all  the  ham  shanks 
and  greens  they  is  in  the  house. 

"  And,  besides,"  says  he  when  Bonnie  Bell  was  go- 
ing out,  "  pull  the  front  door  wide  open  tonight.  Take 
the  lock  out  and  hide  William  where  they  can't  any  of 
my  horny-handed  friends  find  him.  They'll  be  in 
here  tonight,  a  bunch  of  them,  to  sort  of  celebrate  our 
glorious  victory.  There  may  be  several  bands  along 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


in  here  —  I  hope  and  trust  so.  I  shorely  am  fond  of 
music  and  I  like  bands.  Whenever  I  get  elected  sher'f 
or  anything  I  want  the  band  to  play  —  all  the  bands 
they  is." 

Well,  that  was  some  night !  I  was  glad  for  once  we 
had  come  to  Chicago,  for  there  is  more  bands  in  a 
town  that  size  than  there  is  in  Cody. 

Old  Man  Wright  he  was  more  natural  than  I'd  ever 
saw  him  for  a  long  while.  I  don't  know  if  it  was 
quite  fair  the  way  he  done,  because  it  ain't  held  Chris- 
tian to  set  on  a  man  when  he's  down.  But  what  he 
done  was  to  get  that  Dutch  band  with  five  pieces  that 
played  in  front  of  our  house  every  morning  —  they 
come  in  first.  He  stations  them  at  the  side  of  the 
road  right  square  in  front  of  Old  Man  Wisner's  house, 
and  he  tells  them  to  play  everything  they  knew  and 
then  play  it  all  over  again,  and  keep  on  playing.  We 
was  setting  eating  dinner,  enjoying  their  music  as 
much  as  we  could,  when  the  leader  of  the  band  comes 
in ;  and  says  he : 

"  Mein  Herr,  wir  sind  schon  ansgeblasen." 

"  Is  that  so  ?  "  says  Old  Man  Wright.  "  Well,  have 
a  drink,  and  go  out  and  begin  over  again." 

About  now  come  the  rest  of  the  bands,  six  or  eight 
or  so,  and  back  of  them  was  the  merry  villagers.  They 
filled  up  the  whole  street  in  front  of  our  steps  and  in 
front  of  the  Wisners,  and  up  and  down  the  row;  and 


US  BEING  ALDERMAN 


some  of  'em  stepped  on  Bonnie  Bell's  new  tulip  beds 
in  the  yard  south  of  us. 

"  Unto  them  that  hath  is  gave,"  says  Old  Man 
Wright,  looking  peaceful.  "  Like  enough,  most  all  the 
bands  in  this  part  of  town'll  be  here  before  long.  Pore 
old  Dave  Wisner,  he  don't  seem  to  have  no  band;  so 
I'll  fix  him  up  —  he  don't  seem  cheerful,  with  his  blinds 
down  thataway.  Round  up  our  bands,  Curly/'  says 
he,  "  and  line  some  of  'em  up  in  front  of  his  house  on 
the  other  side  of  the  street.  Get  some  of  'em  and 
stand  'em  up  on  our  side  of  his  fence.  Make  a  line 
of  'em  back  to  the  boathouse.  Tell  'em  to  play  —  I 
ain't  particular  what  they  play.  They  don't  even  need 
to  play  the  same  piece  unless  they  want  to ;  but  keep  'em 
busy  —  play  everything  they  have  and  then  repeat 
softly,  and  if  they  get  tired  feed  'em  and  give  'em 
something  to  drink.  And  tell  Johnson,  the  precinct 
captain,  when  he  comes  about  eight  o'clock,  to  come  on 
in  with  his  friends,  the  whole  gang  —  the  door  is  open 
and  there's  no  strings  on  it,  and  no  strings  on  the  new 
alderman." 

Old  Man  Wisner  must  have  been  enjoying  his  life 
that  evening  while  we  was  celebrating  our  being  alder- 
man. Bonnie  Bell  she  didn't  approve  of  this  none,  but 
she  knowed  that  when  her  pa  was  in  one  sort  of  mood 
she'd  better  leave  him  alone  and  let  him  have  his  way 
—  there  wasn't  no  stopping  him. 

"7 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


After  a  while  Johnson,  the  precinct  captain  that  had 
had  this  election  in  charge,  he  come  in  to  have  a  talk 
with  the  new  alderman,  him  and  a  lot  more.  There 
was  a  good  many  Swedes  up  in  his  ward,  and  plenty 
of  these  folks  was  blue-eyed  and  had  yellow  hair,  and 
some  of  'em  had  long  whiskers.  On  the  whole  they 
carried  their  liquor  pretty  well,  and  they  had  plenty. 
Old  Man  Wright  was  in  his  shirt  sleeves  —  rolled  up 
so  that  his  freckles  would  show  —  and  he  had  two  or 
three  cases  of  red  liquor,  and  not  a  cork  in  the 
room! 

"  So  far  as  Sunday  closing  is  concerned,"  says  he, 
"  it  ain't  Sunday  yet." 

They  taken  something  with  the  new  alderman  and 
hollered  for  a  speech. 

"  Men,"  says  he,  "  we  licked  'em  like  I  said  we  would 
—  only  more.  I  don't  ast  any  of  you  to  show  me 
how  to  make  any  more  money,  for  I've  got  enough. 
We  made  this  fight  on  the  Lake  Electric  Ordinance. 
The  intention  of  tfye  other  gang  was  to  hold  up  all  you 
people  that  has  homes  of  your  own.  Every  one  of 
you  has  to  use  electric  light.  It's  only  right  you  ought 
to  pay  a  fair  price,  but  nothing  more.  Let  me  tell 
you  that's  all  you're  going  to  pay.  I've  bought  into 
that  company,  and  me  and  my  bank  crowd  can  run 
it.  Let  me  tell  you  the  prices  will  be  right :  don't 
you  worry  about  that  none  at  all.  For  once  you'll  get 

118 


US  BEING  ALDERMAN 


a  square  deal  here;  or  if  you  don't,  then  elect  some 
other  man  the  next  time." 

"  Hooray  for  our  new  alderman ! "  says  Johnson, 
jumping  up  then. 

They  all  jumps  up  too.  They  had  their  glasses  in 
their  hands  —  plenty  of  men  standing  there  in  our 
ranch  room,  rather  big  men  with  yellow  whiskers,  a 
good  many. 

About  then  Bonnie  Bell  she  comes  down  the  front 
stairs.  She  was  all  dressed  up  in  silk,  in  a  low-necked 
dress  and  a  good  many  jewels  on.  You  wouldn't 
hardly  of  thought  it  was  her  pa  standing  in  his  shirt 
sleeves  in  the  room. 

"  Gentlemen,"  says  Old  Man  Wright,  "  this  is  my 
daughter." 

What  them  men  did  was  not  to  compare  them  two 
at  all.  They  just  stood  in  line  and  every  one  of  'em 
raised  his  glass  like  she  was  a  real  queeen ;  and  they  give 
her  three  cheers.  Bonnie  Bell  she  drops  them  a  curtsy. 

You  see,  them  folks  saw  that,  while  we  had  the  price 
and  had  the  class,  and  could  play  some  games,  we 
was  just  folks.  They  felt  all  the  time  that  they  was 
just  folks  too.  When  you  can  play  that  game  square 
and  on  the  level,  like  Old  Man  Wright  done,  they 
can't  beat  you  in  politics. 

Them  people  went  away  at  last  —  even  our  little 
Dutch  band,  though  they  give  up  hard.  The  Wisner 

119 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


house  was  dark,  while  ours  was  all  lit  up  —  everything 
in  it,  including  me,  Curly.  The  papers  said  that  the 
new  alderman  kept  open  house  until  a  late  hour.  There 
was  some  truth  in  that  —  the  door  was  open  all  night 
long. 

At  breakfast  Old  Man  Wright  was  hungry,  though 
he  hadn't  been  to  bed.  He  set,  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  and  looked  out  at  Wisner's  brick  wall ;  and  says 
he  to  me: 

"  This  here  is  going  to  be  a  changed  ward.  I  ain't 
in  no  man's  vest  pocket.  I  ain't  done  yet.  This  is 
just  the  beginning.  But  where's  the  kid,  Curly?  " 

I  went  and  found  her.  William  was  still  hid  some- 
where—  the  night's  doings  had  grieved  him  plenty. 
She  come  in  and  set  down  by  her  pa. 

"  Well,  sis,"  says  he,  "  you  see  your  dad  is  getting 
some  of  them  Better  Things  we  come  to  Chicago 
after." 

"  Dad,"  says  she,  pushing  back  a  little  way  from 
him  and  looking  into  his  face,  "  tell  me  something." 

"What  is  it,  Honey?" 

"  The  truth  now  —  the  truth." 

"  Yes,  Honey." 

"Did  you  sell  out  the  Circle  Arrow  and  come  to 
town  on  account  of  me?" 

He  didn't  speak  at  first. 

"  Yes,  I  did,  Honey,"  says  he  at  last.  "  I  said  I'd 
120 


tell  you  the  truth.  That  was  why  we  sold  the  old 
ranch  —  so  as  you  could  come  here.  I  wanted  you  to 
go  as  high  as  any  American  woman  could  go.  We 
educated  you  for  that  —  we  brought  you  up  for  it, 
Curly  and  me." 

"  We  didn't  win,  did  we,  dad  ?  "  says  she,  slow  like. 
"How  is  it  done,  dad?" 

"  Gawd  knows,"  he  says.  "  Tell  me,  sis,  if  we 
pulled  out  of  here  and  went  to  some  other  town,  would 
you  be  better?  How  about  Kansas  City?" 

"  No,"  says  she.  "  Our  feet  ain't  headed  that  way. 
I  won't  quit,  dad." 

"  You'll  break  your  heart  first,  and  your  dad's  ?  " 

"  Yes,  if  necessary." 

"  All  to  break  into  them  sepulchers  ?  " 

"  No,"  says  she ;  "  there's  a  lot  of  things  worth  while 
more  than  that.  These  brick-and-stone  houses  are  the 
trenches.  They  may  be  hard  to  take.  But  back  of 
them  lies  the  country,  and  it's  the  country  that's  worth 
while.  You  found  it  —  over  on  the  other  side  of  the 
ward.  For  me  —  don't  mind  if  I  haven't  found  it 
just  yet." 

"  Ain't  you  happy,  sis  ?  "  says  he. 

"  No,"  says  she,  quiet  like ;  "  I'm  not." 

He  pats  her  on  the  back. 

"Get  out  of  doors,"  says  he.  "Do  something  — 
work  at  something!  Look  upwards  and  outside,  and 

121 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


don't  get  to  looking  inwards,"  says  he.  "  That  ain't 
the  way.  Think  what's  in  the  fields  beyond." 

"Life,  dad,"  says  she,  slow;  and  it  seemed  to  me 
like  she  was  sad.  "  Life !  " 

"  Life? "  says  he.  "  Sis,  what  do  you  mean?  Tell 
your  old  dad,  can't  you?" 

She  told  him,  then.  She  put  her  haid  down  on  his 
neck. 

"  Oh,"  says  she,  "  it's  all  right  for  you  two  —  you've 
got  something  to  do  —  you  can  work  and  fight;  but 
what  can  I  do  ?  What  is  there  for  me  to  do  in  all  the 
world  ?  And  you  tried  so  hard  to  make  me  happy !  " 

"  And  you  ain't  happy  ?  "  says  her  pa. 

"Dad!"  says  she.  "Dad!"  And  she  went  on 
crying  down  his  neck. 

Ain't  women  hell?    I  went  on  away. 


XI 

US  AND  THE  FREEZE-OUT 

MORE  and  more  folks  begun  to  talk  about 
us  and  our  place  since  we  got  to  be  alder- 
man.    Of  course  more  and  more  people  be- 
gun to  come  in  and  visit  with  us  now;  but  not  one 
from  Millionaire  Row,  though,  if  I  do  say  it,  we  had 
the  best-looking  place  now  in  the  whole  row  of  houses. 

It  was  one  of  Bonnie  Bell's  ideas  to  make  one  of 
them  sunken  gardens,  which  she  said  was  always  done 
in  Italy. 

"  I'll  tell  you,"  says  she ;  "  we'll  build  our  sunken 
garden  right  up  against  Old  Man  Wisner's  wall.  How 
would  it  do  to  plant  a  few  ivy  vines  to  run  up  the  side 
of  the  wall,  dad?  "  she  ast  her  pa. 

"  Why,  all  right,"  says  he ;  "  but  you  be  mighty 
careful  not  to  plant  any  olive  branches." 

So  Bonnie  Bell  and  me  we  was  busy  quite  a  while 
making  plans  for  this  here  sunken  garden.  We  read 
all  the  books  we  could  find;  still,  she  wasn't  happy. 

"  I  need  some  skilled  gardener  in  this,"  says  she ; 
"  them  Dutch  down  at  the  park  are  no  good  at  all.  I 
wonder  where  the  Wisners'  gardener  went." 

123 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


"  That  fellow  wasn't  so  much,"  says  I  to  Bonnie 
Bell. 

"  What  makes  you  say  that,  Curly?  "  says  she. 

"  Well,  I  heard  him  talking  one  morning  and  I 
didn't  like  it.  For  that  matter,  I  didn't  like  the  way 
he  talked  about  you  neither.  I  told  him  we  couldn't 
have  nothing  to  do  with  the  lower  classes  —  let  alone 
now,  when  we're  alderman,  we  couldn't  do  that.  He 
was  fired  and  he  ought  to  of  been." 

"  How  did  you  come  to  know  all  this,  Curly  ?  "  says 
she. 

"  I  heard  him  down  at  the  boathouse  talking  to  Old 
Lady  Wisner.  I  think  we're  mighty  well  shut  of  the 
whole  bunch  of  them  —  though  I  will  say  he  was 
learning  to  rope  all  right,  and  I  could  of  made  a  cow- 
hand out  of  him  if  I'd  had  time." 

"  What  did  she  say,  Curly  ? "  she  asked  me  then 
"  Did  she  really  talk  about  us?  " 

"  Yes,  she  did.  She  thought  you  was  a  hired  girl. 
And  she  says  we  was  can-nye,  and  he  wasn't  to  mix 
with  us.  Can-nye  —  what  is  can-nye,  Bonnie  ? " 
says  I. 

She  got  red  in  the  face  and  was  shore  mad  at  some- 
thing. 

"  Can-nye,  eh !  "  says  she.  "  Can-nye !  So  that's 
what  she  thinks  we  are." 

"  Well,  that  was  before  we  was  alderman,"  says  I. 
124 


US  AND  THE  FREEZE-OUT 

"  Maybe  they  think  different  now,  whatever  can-nye  is. 
What  is  it,  anyway  ?  " 

"  It  means  something  common,  vulgar  and  low 
down,  Curly,"  says  she. 

"  That  wasn't  no  bouquet,  then,  was  it  ?  "  says  I. 
"  Well,  I  didn't  think  so  then,  though  I  never  heard  it 
called  to  nobody  in  my  life.  I  made  it  plain,  though, 
to  that  hired  man  that  he  didn't  have  no  chance  to 
break  into  our  house." 

"  Did  he  want  to  come  over,  Curly  ?  "  she  ast. 

"  Crazy  to !  He  wanted  to  get  a  look  in  our  ranch 
room.  I  told  you  he  was  hankering  to  be  a  cow- 
puncher." 

"  Well,  why  didn't  you  bring  him  over  if  he  was 
trying  to  learn  things  you  could  teach  him  ?  " 

"  What !  Me  bring  him  in  our  place  ?  I  reckon 
not!  Now  look  here,  kid,"  says  I,  "you  don't  half 
know  how  good-looking  you  are." 

"  I'm  not,"  says  she.  "  I  got  a  freckle  right  on  my 
nose.  It  don't  come  off  neither." 

"  Well,  maybe  one  freckle  or  so,"  says  I ;  "  but  that 
don't  kill  off  your  looks  altogether.  Let  me  tell  you, 
when  it  comes  to  common  people  like  him  talking  your 
name  out  in  public,  why,  it  don't  go !  "  says  I.  "  Be- 
sides, another  thing" —  I  went  on  talking  to  her  right 
plain.  "  Look  at  the  money  you'll  come  into  some- 
time f  He  has  got  to  show  me  a-plenty  what  right  he 

125 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


had  to  say  you  was  wonderfully  beautiful.  You  are, 
kid  —  but  what  business  was  it  of  his?" 

"  He  has  been  gone  four  months  and  eight  days," 
says  she,  thoughtful. 

"  How  do  you  know  he  has  ?  Do  you  keep  a  cal- 
endar on  folks  like  him?  " 

"  No ;  I  was  just  thinking,"  says  she,  "  that  if  he  was 
here  I  might  ask  him  about  my  sunken  garden." 

"  That  would  be  fine,  wouldn't  it?  "  says  I.  "  But 
then,  come  to  think  of  it,  he  wasn't  in  favor  of  that 
fence  hisself .  He  was  right  free-spoken ;  I'll  say  that 
for  him." 

"  He  didn't  like  that  fence  idea?  " 

"  Of  course  he  didn't.     He  knew  it  wasn't  right." 

"  Well,"  says  she,  "  I'm  going  to  plant  ivy  on  it.  If 
it  runs  over  the  top  of  the  wall  and  hangs  down  on 
their  side  I'm  not  going  to  try  to  stop  it." 

Now,  why  she  said  that  I  never  could  figure  out  at 
all.  I  suppose  women  is  peacefuller  than  men. 

The  folks  in  the  ward  where  we  live  at  they  allowed 
their  new  alderman  was  on  the  square.  I  reckon  it 
must  of  been  them  freckles.  There  ain't  no  way  of 
beating  a  man  in  politics  that  has  freckles  and  that  can 
carry  his  liquor.  So  by  and  by  all  the  papers  come 
out  and  begun  to  say  maybe  Mr.  John  William  Wright 
would  be  a  candidate  for  treasurer  next  election.  That 
is  about  as  high  as  you  can  get  in  city  politics.  Treas- 

126 


US  AND  THE  FREEZE-OUT 

urers  make  a  heap  more  than  their  salaries  usual  iri 
any  large  town.  The  people  don't  seem  to  mind  it 
neither. 

Times  out  on  the  range  wasn't  so  good  now  as  they 
might  of  been.  Them  high  benches  along  the  moun- 
tains never  was  made  for  farming.  The  new  settlers 
that  had  come  in  under  our  old  patents,  through  this 
here  Yellow  Bull  Colonization  and  Improvement  Com- 
pany, they  was  shore  having  hard  sledding  along  of 
their  having  believed  everything  they  seen  in  the  pa- 
pers. They'd  allowed  they  was  going  into  the  Prom- 
ised Land.  It  was  —  but  it  wasn't  nothing  else  but  a 
promise. 

It  was  Old  Man  Wisner's  fault  really.  Though, 
after  his  usual  way  in  side  lines,  he  never  showed  his 
hand,  he  was  deep  in  that  company  hisself.  It  was 
him  now  that  had  to  hold  the  thing  together.  The 
settlers  got  sore  and  some  of  them  quit,  and  most  of 
them  didn't  pay  their  second  or  third  payments.  Of 
course  that  didn't  make  no  difference,  so  far  as  we 
was  concerned,  for  the  Yellow  Bull  Colonization  and 
Improvement  Company  had  to  make  their  deferred 
payments  just  the  same  to  us.  But  when  the  com- 
pany's money  run  out,  and  they  maybe  had  to  assess 
the  stockholders,  some  of  the  stockholders  got  al- 
mighty cold  feet. 

"  Well,  Colonel,"  says  I,  "  I  reckon  we'll  get  back 
127 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


our  ranch  some  of  these  days,  won't  we?  I  shore 
wish  we  would." 

"  So  do  I,  Curly;  but  I'm  afraid  not,"  says  he. 

"Why  not?"  I  ast  him. 

"Well,  it's  Old  Man  Wisner  —  that's  the  reason," 
says  he.  "  You  see,  it's  his  money  that  they  are  work- 
ing with  now,"  says  he.  "  Their  new  ditch  has  cost 
them  more  than  four  times  what  the  engineer  said  it 
would  —  a  ditch  always  does.  They've  been  wasting 
the  water,  like  grangers  always  do,  and  they're  fight- 
ing among  themselves.  These  States  people  has  to 
learn  how  to  farm  all  over  again  when  they  go  out 
into  that  sort  of  country.  As  to  them  pore  stock- 
holders, I  reckon  you  could  buy  them  out  right  cheap ; 
but,  cheap  or  not,  Old  Man  Wisner's  in  more  than  he 
ever  thought  he'd  be,"  says  he. 

"  Ain't  you  going  to  let  the  old  man  off  on  none  of 
them  deferred  payments?  "  says  I,  grinning. 

"  I  am,  of  course,  Curly,"  says  he,  solemn.  "  See- 
ing what  he  has  done  for  us,  I'm  just  hankering  for 
some  chance  of  doing  him  a  kindness ! "  says  he. 

I  begun  to  believe  that  before  this  here  game  was  all 
played  there'd  be  some  fur  flying  between  them  two 
old  hes,  neither  of  which  was  easy  to  make  quit. 


XII 

US  AND  A   ACCIDENTAL   FRIEND 

BONNIE  BELL  she  was  busy,  after  her  little 
little  ways,  fixing  her  garden  or  laying  out 
her  flower  beds,  or  reading,  or  studying  about 
pictures.  She  drove  her  electric  brougham  a  good 
deal,  riding  around. 

She  was  riding  along  one  day  in  the  park  below  our 
house  when  she  seen  a  girl  go  riding  by,  with  some 
others  and  a  young  man  or  two,  on  horseback,  bounc- 
ing along  bumpety-bump,  rising  up  every  jump  as 
though  the  saddle  hurt  'em.  One  of  the  girls  was  on  a 
mean  horse,  but  she  was  going  pretty  well  and  didn't 
seem  to  mind  it.  But  this  horse  he  taken  a  scare  at  a 
automobile  that  was  letting  off  steam,  and,  first  thing 
you  know,  up  went  the  horse  in  front  and  the  girl  got 
a  fall. 

There  wasn't  any  of  them  very  good  riders,  and  this 
horse,  being  a  bad  actor,  scared  the  others.  They  all 
bolted  off,  not  seeming  to  know  that  this  girl  had  fell 
off.  She  lit  on  her  head. 

Bonnie  Bell  seen  all  this  happen,  and  she  gets  out  of 
her  car  on  the  keen  lope  and  runs  over  to  where  the 

129 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


girl  is  and  picks  her  up.  Her  and  a  policeman  took 
her  in  Bonnie  Bell's  brougham.  She  didn't  know 
nothing  yet,  being  jolted  some  on  the  head. 

Now  that  girl  was  pretty  as  a  picture  herself,  with 
light  hair  and  blue  eyes,  and  kind  of  a  big  mouth.  She 
was  smiling  even  when  she  didn't  know  a  thing.  She 
was  always  smiling.  She  was  dressed  like  she  had 
lots  of  money;  and  she  was  fixed  for  riding  —  boots 
and  some  sort  of  pants. 

Bonnie  Bell  couldn't  bring  her  to  and  she  concludes 
to  take  her  home  to  our  house.  First  thing  I  know, 
there  she  was  outside,  hollering  for  me. 

"  Come  here  quick,  Curly !  "  says  she.  "  Come  help 
me  carry  her  into  the  house." 

So  I  helped  her.  The  girl  still  had  her  quirt  in  her 
hand  and  she  was  kind  of  white. 

"Who  is  she,  Bonnie  Bell?"  says  I;  and  she  says 
she  didn't  know,  and  tells  me  to  go  and  get  a  doctor. 

But  while  I  was  getting  William  to  telephone  —  I 
couldn't  use  them  things  much  myself  —  the  girl  comes 
to,  all  right;  and  she  sets  up  and  rubs  her  head. 

"  Oh,  what  do  you  know  about  that ! "  says  she. 
"  He  got  me  off.  I  thank  you  so  much.  Which  way 
did  he  go  ?  "  she  ast. 

"  He  was  headed  to  the  riding-school  barn,"  says 
Bonnie  Bell,  "  the  last  I  saw  of  him.  Your  friends 
were  all  going  the  same  way.  So  I  thought  the  best 

130 


US  AND  A  ACCIDENTAL  FRIEND 

thing  I  could  do  was  to  bring  you  here  till  you  felt 
better." 

I  don't  reckon  the  girl  was  hurt  bad,  she  being 
young;  and  such  girls  is  tough. 

"  Well,"  says  she,  "  it  certainly  was  nice  of  you. 
And  how  am  I  to  thank  you  ?  "  She  kissed  Bonnie 
Bell  then  for  luck.  "  You're  nice,"  says  she,  "  and  I 
like  you." 

Bonnie  Bell,  if  you'll  believe  me,  was  kind  of  timid 
and  scared,  with  it  being  so  long  since  any  woman  had 
said  a  kind  word  to  her.  She  didn't  hardly  know  what 
to  say,  at  first,  till  the  girl  kissed  her  again. 

"  I  am  Katherine  Kimberly,"  says  she.  "  We  live 
just  above  the  park.  Where  is  this  ?  " 

"  This  is  just  above  the  park  too,"  says  Bonnie  Bell 
— "  on  the  boulevard.  This  is  Mr.  John  William 
Wright's  place,"  says  she,  "and  I'm  Miss  Wright. 
Can  I  serve  some  tea  to  you?"  So  she  calls  Wil- 
liam. 

When  William  brings  in  the  tea  them  two  set  up 
and  begun  to  talk  right  sociable.  This  here  Kim- 
berly girl  she  rubbed  her  head  once  in  a  while,  but  she 
wasn't  hurt  much  along  of  having  so  much  hair  to  fall 
on  her  head  with.  The  tea  fixed  her  all  right. 

"  I  hit  my  coco  a  jolt ! "  says  she.  "  Gee !  I  was 
going  some.  I'll  never  ride  that  long-legged  old  gi- 
raffe again ;  he's  nothing  but  a  dog  after  all  —  not  that 

131 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


I'm  afraid,  but  I  don't  like  him,"  says  she.     "  Do  you 
ride?" 

"  Would  you  like  to  come  and  see  my  horses?  "  says 
Bonnie  Bell.  "If  you  like  horses " 

"  Do  I  like  them  ?  I'm  crazy  over  them !  Can  you 
ride?" 

"  Oh,  some,"  says  Bonnie  Bell.  "  Curly  says  I 
can." 

"  Curly  ?  "     And  she  looks  at  me. 

"  He's  our  foreman,"  says  Bonnie  Bell.  "  Talk  to 
him  if  you  want  to  know  about  riding  —  he's  a  rider." 

"  I  was  once,  ma'am,"  says  I,  "  but  not  no  more. 
I  wouldn't  get  on  a  mean  horse  now  for  a  thousand 
dollars.  I'm  scared  of  horses,  ma'am;  but  she  ain't" 
—  meaning  Bonnie  Bell.  "  She  still  thinks  she  can 
ride  any  of  'em." 

"  Yes,"  says  Bonnie  Bell ;  "  and,  as  far  as  that  goes, 
if  I  could  get  you  to  come  with  me  I  would  always  ride 
a  horse  and  not  go  in  a  car  or  boat." 

"  Boat?  "  says  Miss  Kimberly.  "  Oh,  of  course  you 
have  'em  too." 

"  Come  down,"  says  Bonnie  Bell,  "  and  you  and  I 
can  look  at  my  horses  and  boat  and  things.  After  that 
I'll  take  you  home." 

"  Oh,  may  I  go  ?  "  says  this  Katherine  girl.  "  You 
see,  I  suppose  I  must  get  home  before  they  tell  mom- 
mah," 

132 


US  AND  A  ACCIDENTAL  FRIEND 

Well,  she  hadn't  more  than  got  out  on  our  porch 
than  she  knew  in  a  minute  where  she  was.  This  was 
where  she  showed  she  was  a  lady  born  and  a  good 
girl  too.  She  never  let  on  beyond  that  first  look  — 
she  seen  she  had  been  brought  into  the  house  of  us 
can-nyes.  This  was  the  house  with  the  wall,  where 
nobody  of  the  Row  ever  went. 

"  How  lovely  it  is ! "  says  she.  "  Do  you  know  you 
have  the  nicest  place  on  this  whole  street?  It's  taste- 
ful. I  like  this  little  sunken  garden  —  it's  a  dear! 
And  see  how  the  ivy  grows  on  the  wall!  And  over 
there's  the  boathouse.  May  I  see  your  things?  " 

Now  what  she  said  last  wasn't  any  bluff.  It  was 
just  the  girl  in  her  talking  to  another  girl.  I  seen 
Bonnie  Bell  give  her  another  look,  kind  of  asting  like 
—  she  herself  was  free  and  friendly  every  way;  but 
she  hadn't  been  used  to  this  right  along  lately.  So 
she  looks  at  this  Katherine  Kimberly  right  close  for 
about  half  a  second,  till  she  seen  she  was  on  the  square. 

Then  this  Kimberly  girl  puts  her  arm  round  Bonnie 
Bell.  That  was  the  way  them  two  went  down  to  the 
boathouse  —  their  arms  around  one  another.  When 
they  come  back,  in  about  ten  minutes  or  so,  they  was 
talking  so  fast  neither  one  of  them  could  of  heard 
what  the  other  was  saying. 

"  Oh,  my  goodness ! "  says  Katherine  after  a  little. 
"  I  must  be  going  home.  It  isn't  far,  you  know." 

133 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


"  Yes;  I  know,"  says  Bonnie  Bell,  quiet. 

"And  you  said  you'd  take  me  home  in  your  car?  " 

"  And  you  want  me  to?  "  says  Bonnie  Bell,  kind  of 
funny. 

"I  wish  you  would  —  if  you  will.  Of  course  I 
could  walk." 

"  Does  your  head  hurt  now  ?  "  ast  Bonnie  Bell. 

The  girl  looked  at  her  straight.  Then  I  knew  she 
was  on  the  square. 

"No,  it  don't,"  says  she;  "but  I'd  like  it  if  you 
would  take  me  home  in  your  car,"  says  she.  "  I  want 
you  to  come  in  and  meet  my  mommah.  We  want  to 
come  down  here  if  you'll  let  us,  all  of  us.  Will  you 
let  us?  Will  you  let  us,  Bonnie?  "  says  she. 

Now,  aint  it  funny  how  much  can  happen  quiet  and 
easy?  I  expect  more  had  happened  for  Bonnie  Bell 
this  last  hour  or  so  than  had  in  a  whole  year  before  — 
and  all  by  accident,  like  most  good  things  comes  to  us. 
Not  a  woman  in  that  block  had  ever  called  on  Bonnie 
Bell  and  it  didn't  look  like  they  ever  would.  We 
wasn't  on  the  map  —  even  me,  that  ain't  got  any 
brains  at  all,  knowed  that. 

And  yet  I  could  tell  that  if  Bonnie  Bell  Wright 
drove  along  the  front  of  that  block  with  Katherine 
Kimberly  in  her  car,  and  they  got  off  at  the  Kim- 
berlys'  and  went  in  —  and  if  the  Kimberly s  come  up 
to  our  house,  too  —  why,  then  I  knowed  we  was  on  the 


US  AND  A  ACCIDENTAL  FRIEND 

map.  I  don't  think  Bonnie  Bell  cared.  What  was  in 
her  heart  was  mostly  gladness  at  meeting  some  girl 
friend  she  could  talk  to  right  free. 

Of  course,  living  there  so  long,  I  couldn't  help  know- 
ing some  of  the  things  along  the  Row.  I  knowed 
there  was  a  sort  of  a  fight  there  as  to  which  was  the 
queen  of  Millionaire  Row,  which  was  the  same  as  be- 
ing the  queen  of  the  society  of  this  here  city  of  Chi- 
cago. Either  it  was  this  Mrs.  Henry  D.  Kimberly  or 
else  it  was  Mrs.  David  Abraham  Wisner.  The  Kim- 
berlys  was  in  wholesale  leather,  while  the  Wisners 
was  in  wholesale  beef  and  pork,  and  them  things. 
Most  everybody  in  the  Row,  it  seemed  to  me,  had 
something  to  do  with  a  cow,  one  shape  or  another,  ex- 
cept us  —  which,  dealing  with  cows  on  the  hoof,  might 
of  been  said  to  be  at  the  bottom  of  the  whole  game. 
But  that  ain't  respectable,  like  I  told  you.  Sausage 
or  hides  or  leather  is  better  —  especial  if  whole- 
sale. 

Bonnie  Bell  was  quiet.  She  taken  up  the  collar  of 
this  Katherine  girl  and  looks  at  the  little  pin  she  wore 
on  it. 

"  What  year  was  yours  ?  "  says  she. 

"  Last  June,"  says  Katherine. 

Then  I  seen  they  was  both  scholars  of  that  same 
Old  Man  Smith,  where  Bonnie  Bell  had  went  to  school. 
They  had  on  some  sort  of  pins  so  they  knew  each 

135 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


other,  like  Masons.  Not  having  nothing  better  to  do, 
they  kissed  each  other  again. 

By  the  time  Bonnie  Bell  had  drove  over  to  the  Kim- 
berlys'  house  folks  had  found  Katherine's  horse,  but 
not  her;  so  her  ma  was  scared  silly,  natural  enough. 
When  she  seen  her  long-lost  daughter  coming  with 
Bonnie  Bell,  both  of  them  able  to  walk  and  talk,  she 
was  right  glad,  and  fell  on  the  necks  of  both  of  them, 
weeping  some. 

"  And  who  is  this  young  lady,"  says  she,  meaning 
Bonnie  Bell,  "  who  has  been  so  kind  as  to  bring  you 
home  to  your  mother?" 

And  she  smiled  at  Bonnie  Bell,  her  being  the  sec- 
ond woman  to  do  that  in  Chicago  in  two  years.  You 
see,  if  a  girl  is  handsome  women  mostly  hate  her;  the 
men  don't  —  which  is  why. 

"  This  is  our  neighbor,  Miss  Wright,  mommah," 
says  Katherine.  "  They  live  just  below  us  a  little 
way." 

She  got  red  in  the  face  then,  for  everybody  on  the 
street  there  knew  about  us  and  the  high  fence ;  yet  no- 
body knew  us  personal.  But  Katherine's  ma  was  dif- 
ferent from  most  of  these  other  people.  Besides,  you 
only  needed  one  good  look  at  Bonnie  Bell  to  see  that 
she  wasn't  any  common  folks. 

"  She  left  Smith  the  year  before  I  went  in,  mom- 
mah," says  Katherine,  "and  she's  in  my  sororyety; 

136 


US  AND  A  ACCIDENTAL  FRIEND 

and  she's  been  here  ever  since  they  built  their  fine 
house;  and  she's  a  dear  and  I  love  her."  Katherine 
had  a  way  of  talking  all  in  one  breath,  like  a  sprinter 
running  a  hundred  yards  flat.  "  I  want  you  to  love 
her,  too,"  says  she  to  her  ma. 

And  then  Old  Lady  Kimberly  she  taken  Bonnie  Bell 
in  her  arms  and  kissed  her  some  more;  and  the  kid, 
like  enough,  come  near  to  spilling  over  then. 

"  Come  right  in  and  have  a  cup  of  tea,"  says  she. 

So  they  went  into  the  house,  and  the  Kimberlys'  sad 
man,  which  was  named  William,  too,  brought  them 
some  tea.  They  didn't  need  it  none,  because  they  was 
full  of  it  already;  but  women  can  hold  plenty  of  tea. 
When  they  was  drinking  that  and,  like  enough,  all 
three  of  them  talking  at  once,  Katherine  tells  her  ma 
all  about  how  she  got  threw  from  her  horse,  and  how 
Bonnie  Bell  saved  her  life  and  carried  her  home  and 
took  care  of  her,  and  now  brought  her  back. 

"  Mommah,  their  place  is  lovely,"  says  she. 
"  They've  all  sorts  of  nice  things  and  we're  going  to 
call  as  soon  as  Bonnie  Bell  will  let  us." 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  says  her  ma,  who  was  going  to  back 
any  play  her  girl  made. 

"  Bonnie  Bell,"  says  she  — "  that  is  a  odd  name  and 
a  very  pretty  one." 

Bonnie  Bell  laughed  at  that. 

"  It's  one  my  dad  gave  me,"  says  she.     "  My  real 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


name  is  Mary  Isabel.  My  dad  always  called  me  Bon- 
nie Bell ;  and  so  did  Curly." 

"  Curly  ?  "  says  the  old  lady,  not  knowing  who  that 
was  —  me. 

"  Oh,  Curly's  a  dear,"  says  Katherine  then.  "  He's 
a  cowboy,  or  was  when  he  was  younger;  but  he  isn't 
young  now.  And  he  can  ride  any  sort  of  horse  living, 
and  rope  things  —  I  think  he  must  be  the  stableman." 

"  Indeed  he  isn't,"  says  Bonnie  Bell.  "  He's  our 
foreman." 

They  didn't  know  what  that  was,  being  city  people ; 
so  she  told  them.  Them  Kimberlys  couldn't  see  why 
they  took  me  to  the  city  when  they  didn't  have  no  cows. 
I  reckon  they  must  of  talked  of  me  and  Old  Man 
Wright  plenty  —  you  see,  Bonnie  Bell  told  me  of  it 
like  it  happened.  She  told  me  what  Katherine's  ma 
wore  and  what  their  William  looked  like,  and  what 
sort  of  pictures  was  on  the  walls.  Woman  folks  can 
see  more  than  a  man  and  remember  it  better. 

Well,  sir,  it  wasn't  any  more  than  a  week  before  Old 
Lady  Kimberly  drove  up  to  our  house  in  her  car ;  and 
she  come  right  up  the  walk  herself  and  didn't  send  in 
any  of  them  little  cards  that  says:  "  Tag;  you're  It." 

She  come  into  our  parlor,  and  our  William  went  out 
and  got  Bonnie  Bell  for  her,  and  them  two  must  of 
had  a  regular  visit,  because  Katherine's  ma  insisted  on 
seeing  our  ranch  room,  which  pleased  her  mighty 

138 


much.  She  said  she  certainly  was  going  to  bring  her 
husband  over,  because  he  would  be  crazy  over  it. 

"Tell  me,"  says  she — "when  can  we  come?" 

"  Why,"  says  Bonnie  Bell,  "  in  a  real  ranch  there 
isn't  a  time  of  the  day  or  night  when  you  can't  come 
and  be  welcome.  Everybody's  welcome  at  a  ranch, 
you  know." 

Old  Lady  Kimberly,  she  seemed  kind  of  thoughtful 
over  that ;  but  she  didn't  say  nothing  about  being  slow 
starting.  Says  she: 

"If  you'd  let  us  come  we'd  all  be  so  glad  to  come 
and  sit  in  your  ranch  room  —  it's  new  to  us  and  we 
like  it.  I  know  my  husband  would  like  it  very  much. 
As  for  Katherine,  I  don't  think  I'll  be  able  to  keep  her 
away  after  this." 

Well,  that  afternoon,  late,  Katherine  calls  up  on  the 
telephone  again  —  about  the  eighth  time  she  had  al- 
ready that  day  —  and  she  ast  might  her  pa  and  ma 
and  her  come  over  that  evening  to  see  our  ranch  room. 
Of  course  Bonnie  Bell  told  them  to  come. 

"  Well,  what  do  you  know,  Curly  ?  "  says  she  to  me. 
"  This  ain't  according  to  Hoyle.  Mrs.  Kimberly 
ought  to  of  waited  till  I  returned  her  call,  and  till 
maybe  one  or  the  other  of  us  had  invited  the  other  to 
a  reception,  or  to  a  dinner  or  something." 

"  What's  a  reception  ?  "  says  I. 

"  Something  we  never  had  yet,  Curly,"  says  she. 
139 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


"  It's  a  place  where  people  ain't  happy ;  but  there's 
plenty  of  'em.  Maybe  tonight  is  the  closest  we've 
come  to  it." 

Well,  they  all  came  that  night,  all  three  of  'em  — 
twicet  in  one  day,  which  was  going  pretty  strong ;  and, 
like  enough,  something  they  hadn't  never  done  before 
in  all  their  lives. 

"  No  you  don't!  "  says  Mrs.  Kimberly  when  Bonnie 
Bell  was  going  to  take  'em  into  the  parlor.  "  We're 
going  right  into  the  ranch  room  and  sit  there,  all  of 
us  —  mayn't  we,  please  ?  " 

So  they  come  in  and  Old  Man  Kimberly  he  walked 
around  and  looked  through  the  place ;  and  he  was  like 
a  kid. 

"  By  golly,  Wright !  "  says  he.  "  I  didn't  know  a  al- 
derman could  have  as  much  sense  as  this,"  says  he. 
"  This  is  the  real  goods,"  says  he  —  "  you  can  set  down 
in  one  of  those  chairs  and  not  break  its  legs  off. 
And  here's  tobacco  handy,  and  matches  all  over  the 
place.  Now  over  in  the  club  all  you  get  is  a  place  to 
smoke  and  a  big  chair,  and  a  fireplace  to  look  into. 
Ain't  a  city  a  cold  old  place,  John  Wright?  "  says  he. 

"  Well,  you  see,"  says  Old  Man  Wright  by  and  by  — 
"  you  see,  folks  get  to  be  pretty  busy  with  one  thing 
and  another.  I  know  they  all  mean  right  well,"  says 
he,  "  but  they  get  so  busy  in  a  town  like  this  they  don't 
have  time  for  anything." 

140 


US  AND  A  ACCIDENTAL  FRIEND 

That  was  about  all  that  ever  was  said  about  our 
being  neighbors  on  our  street.  Nobody  apologized  for 
not  having  done  this  or  that.  We  just  dropped  in  like 
we'd  always  been  doing  that  way. 

"  Well,  Alderman,"  says  Old  Man  Kimberly  after  a 
time,  "  you  certainly  know  how  to  live.  I'm  going  to 
drop  in  here  every  day  or  so,  evenings,  because  I  can't 
get  a  match  at  the  club  without  calling  a  boy,  and  here 
you  can  just  reach  out  and  get  plenty." 

"  Come  in  as  often  as  you  like,  neighbor,"  says  my 
boss ;  and  he  fills  his  own  pipe  and  passes  the  fine-cut. 

Sometimes  I  think,  after  all,  folks  is  a  good  deal 
alike  inside,  and  what  makes  good  in  one  place  will  in 
another.  We  used  these  people  like  we  was  all  out  on 
the  Yellow  Bull;  and  here  was  Old  Man  Kimberly 
feeling  better  than  he  had  in  two  years  and  all  of  'em 
glad  to  come  back  to  our  place.  Which  all  happened 
right  soon  —  and  because  of  them  two  girls. 

"  Well,"  says  Katherine's  pa  after  a  while,  "  if  I 
had  to  choose  I  believe  I'd  rather  be  a  ranchman  out 
West  than  anything  in  the  world.  Tell  me  —  what 
made  you  sell  out  and  come  East  to  live?  Why 
couldn't  you  be  content  where  you  was  at?  " 

"  Well,"  says  my  boss,  kind  of  smiling  crooked  out 
of  the  end  of  his  mouth,  "  we  come  East  to  get  some 
of  the  Better  Things." 

They  looked  then,  both  of  'em,  over  at  the  two 
141 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


young  girls  on  the  sofa.  They  was  so  busy  talking 
they  didn't  know  anybody  was  looking  at  'em.  When 
we  was  all  quiet  they  both  spoke  out  right  at  the  same 
time.  "  I  got  mine  at  Madeleine's,"  Katherine  was 
saying ;  and  Bonnie  Bell  says :  "  We  fry  ours  in  but- 
ter." The  Lord  only  knows  what  they'd  been  talking 
about;  but  it  didn't  make  no  difference. 

Well,  anyways,  we  all  had  quite  a  fine  time,  setting 
there  in  our  ranch  room,  with  the  smoky  mantelpiece 
and  the  old  tables  and  chairs,  and  the  sofa  covered 
with  a  hide,  where  the  two  girls  was  setting. 

By  and  by  they  all  got  up  and  said  they  had  to  go 
home.  Old  Man  Kimberly  he  held  out  his  hand  to 
my  boss,  and  they  shook  hands  quite  a  while  together, 
not  saying  very  much. 

"Will  you  come  over  some  evening?"  he  ast  Old 
Man  Wright. 

And  he  says: 

"Shore!" 

About  then  {Catherine's  ma  was  kissing  Bonnie  Bell 
some  more  —  she  seemed  never  to  get  tired  of  kissing 
Bonnie  Bell.  Then  them  two  girls  they  walks  off  to 
the  front  door,  their  arms  around  each  other.  I  seen 
'em  standing  there  under  the  light.  By  and  by  Kath- 
erine picks  up  Bonnie  Bell's  hand  and  looks  it  over, 
and  there  wasn't  no  rings  on  it. 

"  Are  you  engaged  yet,  Bonnie  ?  "  she  ast. 
142 


US  AND  A  ACCIDENTAL  FRIEND 

Bonnie  Bell  kind  of  blushed  at  that. 

"No,"  says  she.     "Are  you?" 

"No.  Mommah  says  I'm  too  young,"  says  she; 
"but  then " 

"  Yes,"  says  Bonnie  Bell;  "  but  then " 

Old  Man  Wright  he  turns  to  me  after  they'd  all 
went  away. 

"  Well,  Curly,"  says  he,  thoughtful,  "  I  reckon  we're 
coming  on." 

"  Yes,"  says  I ;  "  but  then " 


XIII 

THEM   AND  THE   RANGE   LAW 

WHEN  they  all  went  home  us  three  set  quite 
a  while  in  our  ranch  room,  looking  at  the 
fire.  It  wasn't  winter  yet,  but  sometimes 
we  lit  the  fire  in  the  fireplace.  Old  Man  Wright  he 
seemed  to  be  thinking  of  something,  or  trying  to.  At 
last  he  says : 

"  Sis,  go  get  the  fine-toothed  comb  and  comb  your 
pa's  head  —  won't  you,  sis?  "  says  he. 

"  Can't  your  barber  do  that  for  you?  "  ast  she. 

"  He  does ;  but  no  barber  can  really  comb  a  alder- 
man's head  soothing,"  says  he,  "  not  like  his  own  kid 
can.  Now  a  alderman  that's  soothed  proper  might  be 
induced  to  do  almost  anything,  and  combing  him  on 
his  head  is  like  scratching  a  pig  along  its  back  with  a 
cob.  You  try  it,  kid ;  it  might  be  perductive  of  a  new 
car  or  something  for  you,"  says  he. 

So  then  she  gets  the  comb  and  begins  for  to  comb 
his  head  some,  and  he  goes  on  talking  with  me.  Evi- 
dent he  had  something  on  his  mind ;  that  was  the  way 
he'd  got  used  to  think  when  something  hard  come  up. 

"  Curly,"  says  he  to  me  after  a  while,  "  what  would 
144 


THEM  AND  THE  RANGE  LAW 

you  say  if  we  had  a  chance  to  buy  in  the  Circle  Arrow 
Ranch  again  ?  " 

"  I'd  say  it  was  the  finest  thing  in  the  world,"  says 
I.  "  Them  grangers  ain't  got  a  chance  on  earth.  It 
takes  a  long  course  for  to  learn  how  to  understand  a 
cow's  mind,"  says  I. 

"  That's  what  they  call  sikeology  in  Smith,"  says 
Bonnie  Bell. 

"  Well,"  says  I,  "  you  can't  get  no  course  in  cow 
sikeology  in  no  four  years ;  it  takes  more  than  that  on 
the  range,  like  your  pa  and  me  done.  They  can't 
raise  nothing  out  there  in  the  Yellow  Bull  but  cows, 
and  they  don't  know  how  to  raise  them.  Colonel," 
says  I,  "  ain't  them  deferred  payments  deferring  all 
right?" 

"  Some,"  says  he.  "  They  didn't  pay  nothing  this 
year  yet  and  it's  way  past  due.  Looks  like  there 
might  be  some  trouble  in  there,  don't  it?  " 

"  Well  then,"  says  Bonnie  Bell,  "  where  does  that 
leave  us?  Look  at  this  place ;  look  at  all  our  expense." 
She  stopped  combing  then. 

"  Don't  worry  about  that,"  says  her  pa.  "  We've 
made  plenty  of  money  other  ways  than  that.  For  in- 
stance, I  got  a  offer  right  now  to  sell  out  all  our  land 
below  here  toward  the  park  for  about  three  times  what 
we  paid  for  it.  The  Second  Calvary  Regiment  wants 
to  put  up  a  barracks,  or  a  armory  or  something,  in 

145 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


there.  Also,  a  French  milliner  wants  in,  just  below 
here." 

"  What !  "  says  Bonnie  Bell.  "  That  would  ruin  the 
whole  Row.  What  do  you  mean  by  that  ?  " 

"Huh!"  says  her  pa.  "That's  what  they  all  say. 
Old  Man  Wisner  was  crazy  when  he  heard  something 
about  it  —  he  was  going  to  get  out  a  injunction.  I 
hope  he'll  try  it;  for  he  can't.  Seems  like  most  of 
the  things  he's  been  trying  on  us  he  couldn't  make  go." 

"  Well,  dad,  I  don't  believe  I'd  like  that  barracks 
on  our  land  either.  Suppose  we  all  think  it  over  a 
little  bit." 

"  All  right,"  says  he.  "  There  may  be  other  ways 
of  having  fun  with  Dave.  I  just  thought  of  that  one. 
Oh,  well,  I  bought  the  lot  north  of  them,  and  I'm  think- 
ing of  putting  a  Old  People's  Home  in  there,"  says  he. 
"  Across  the  street  from  there  I'm  thinking  of  putting 
up  a  statue  of  Kaiser  Wilhelm ;  some  of  my  constitu- 
ents they  would  come  there  Sunday  and  hold  services," 
says  he. 

"  Anything  else  you  got  on  your  mind,  Colonel  ?  " 
I  ast  him. 

"  Well,  I  just  seen  a  chance  to  make  a  little  specula- 
tion in  a  moving-picture  company,"  says  he.  "  I  didn't 
put  in  much  —  only  two,  three  hundred  thousand  dol- 
lars; but  I  didn't  know  but  what  it  might  make  some 
money  after  a  while.  How  would  you  like  to  be  a 

146 


THEM  AND  THE  RANGE  LAW 

actor  man  in  our  company,  Curly  ?  "  says  he.  "  The 
worst  it  could  do  would  be  to  spoil  a  puncher  that 
never  was  much  good  anyhow." 

"  No,"  says  I ;  "  it's  too  much  like  work." 

"  Well,  we  could  make  other  pictures,"  says  he, 
smiling  contented.  "  For  instance,  we  could  set  up 
two  or  three  cameras  right  acrost  the  street  from  Old 
Man  Wisner's  'most  any  morning.  Then,  when  Old 
Man  Wisner  come  out  we  could  take  his  picture  and 
show  him  how  he  looks  when  he  has  got  a  grouch. 
Or  we  could  take  a  picture  of  the  old  lady  getting  in 
her  car  or  getting  out.  Neither  one  of  'em  has  got 
much  girlish  figure  now. 

"  Why,  there's  loads  of  pictures  that  we  could  take. 
If  you  didn't  like  to  work  much  riding  or  anything  in 
the  movies,"  says  he,  "  you  could  be  taken  leaning  kind 
of  careless  on  our  gate  and  looking  over  the  Wisners' 
fence  —  for  instance,  talking  to  their  hired  man.  .  .  . 
Don't  you  dig  my  head  no  more,  kid,"  says  he.  "  I 
ain't  no  bomb-proof,  like  you  think." 

"  Dad,"  says  Bonnie  Bell,  "  I  ain't  going  to  comb 
your  head  no  more." 

"Why?  "says  he. 

"  You're  a  mean  and  revengeful  old  man,"  says  she. 
"  It  ain't  right  for  us  to  treat  our  neighbors  thataway," 
says  she,  "  and  I  won't  have  it." 

"  I'm  living  up  to  my  laws,"  says  he,  calm.    "  I've 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


got  to  hand  Wisner  what  he's  trying  to  hand  to  me. 
You  know  the  law  that's  been  good  enough  for  us. 
That's  the  range  law." 

"  This  ain't  the  range,"  says  she. 

"Ain't  it?"  says  he.  "This  looks  like  a  ranch 
house  some.  If  you'll  run  your  comb  along  over  my 
dome,  too,  you'll  find,  unless  I'm  awful  mistaken, 
something  like  the  head  of  a  cowman.  Feel  with  your 
thumb  good,  Bonnie  Bell,"  says  he.  "  See  if  you  can 
find  any  soft  spot  in  there,  like  in  a  melon.  See  if  you 
can  find  any  place  where  it  feels  like  I  was  going  to 
lay  down  and  let  any  yellow-livered  son-of-a-gun  try 
to  ride  me,  and  me  not  resent  it,"  says  he.  "  They 
started  this  and  it's  got  to  be  finished  —  that's  the 
law.  Believe  me,  one  way  or  the  other,  that  old  white- 
face  over  there  is  going  to  be  a  good  oxen  sometime, 
and  he'll  come  up  and  feed  outen  my  hand." 

Bonnie  Bell  she  quits  combing  and  goes  over  and 
sets  down  on  the  lounge,  and  don't  say  nothing;  nor 
me  neither.  We  both  knew  about  the  old  man  when 
he  started  after  anybody.  He  was  that  kind  of  a 
sher'f.  It  didn't  look  peaceful  none  to  me  what  might 
happen  now. 

"  Lock,  stock  and  barrel  ? "  says  he  to  himself. 
"  Lock,  stock  and  barrel  —  that's  the  way  we  done. 
I  dislike  the  color  of  their  hair  and  eyes.  Lock,  stock 
and  barrel,"  says  he,  "they  got  to  settle!  I  don't 

148 


THEM  AND  THE  RANGE  LAW 

want  no  truck  with  Dave  Wisner,  nor  his  old  lady, 
nor  their  ox,  nor  their  ass,  nor  their  manservant,  nor 
their  maidservant,  nor  the  stranger  inside  their  gates 
—  everything  north  of  that  fence  is  hostile  to  us  and 
everything  south  of  it  is  hostile  to  them.  There's  no 
crossing." 

"Their  maidservant  and  their  manservant,  dad?" 
says  Bonnie  Bell. 

"You  heard  me!" 

"  What's  their  maidservant  or  their  manservant  got 
to  do  with  it,  dad  ?  "  ast  she.  She  was  setting  on  the 
lounge  now,  with  the  fine-tooth  comb  in  her  hand. 

"  He'd  better  not  have  nothing  to  do  with  it,"  said 
Old  Man  Wright.  "  Curly,  you're  foreman  —  see  to 
it  that  not  one  of  them  crosses  the  line." 

"  All  right,  Colonel,"  says  I;  "  orders  is  orders." 


XIV 

HOW  THEIR   HIRED   MAN   COME  BACK 

THERE  was  only  one  thing  kept  that  armory 
from  going  up  right  on  our  flower  beds.  The 
weak  side  of  Old  Man  Wright  was,  he 
couldn't  help  doing  anything  a  woman  ast  him  to  do. 
This  Katherine  girl,  one  day  she  comes  down  to  our 
place,  with  the  paper  in  her  hand,  and  she  says  to 
him: 

"  Look  here,  Colonel  Wright,"  says  she,  "  what's 
in  the  paper!  Is  that  true?  " 

"If  it  ain't  true,"  says  he,  " it  may  be  before 
long." 

"  Why,  Colonel  Wright,"  says  she,  looking  at  him 
with  her  eyes  wide  open  —  and  when  she  looked  at 
you  thataway  couldn't  no  man  help  liking  her  — 
"  I  wisht  you  wouldn't  do  that,  sir  —  please ! " 
says  she. 

"Why  not?"  says  he. 

"  Well,"  says  she,  "  because." 

He  turns  around  and  throws  up  both  hands.  He 
never  said  another  word  about  it  after  that.  But 
after  a  while  the  calvary  regiment  went  somewheres 

150 


THEIR  HIRED  MAN  COME  BACK 

else  —  on  some  more  land  he  had  bought,  so  it  turned 
out.  Nobody  knew  what  changed  his  mind.  It  was 
Katherine,  the  first  girl  friend  that  Bonnie  Bell  had 
had  in  the  city. 

You  see,  Katherine  used  to  come  to  our  house  regu- 
lar now ;  her  and  Bonnie  Bell  was  right  thick  together. 
One  time  Katherine  come  in  quite  excited. 

"  My  brother  Tom's  coming  back  next  week,"  says 
she.  "Ain't  that  fine?" 

"  Is  that  so?"  says  Bonnie  Bell.  "  I'd  like  to  see 
him." 

"  Tom's  going  to  live  with  us,"  says  Katherine, 
"  and  be  in  the  office  downtown  —  unless  he  gets  mar- 
ried, or  something  of  that  kind.  I  wisht  he  would. 
Now  I  wisht  he  would  get  engaged.  I'd  like  to  see 
how  he'd  act.  You  can't  guess  what  I'd  like !  " 

"No,"  says  Bonnie  Bell;  "I  can't." 

"  Well,  he's  awfully  good-looking,"  says  Katherine. 
"  He  hasn't  got  much  sense  though.  He  dances  and 
can  play  a  mandolin,  and  has  been  around  the  world 
a  good  bit.  He's  sweet-tempered,  but  he  smokes  too 
much.  Sometimes  of  mornings  he's  cross.  But  you 
can't  guess  what  I'd  like ! " 

"No;  I  can't,"  says  Bonnie  Bell. 

Then  Katherine  kissed  her  and  taken  her  hands. 

"  Why,"  says  she,  "  I'd  like  it  awfully  if  you  and 
Tom  could  hit  it  off  together,"  says  she.  "  I  think 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


it  would  be  lovely  —  perfectly  lovely!  Then  we'd  be 
sisters,  wouldn't  we?"  Bonnie  Bell  she  blushed 
a-plenty. 

"  Why,  how  you  talk ! "  says  she.  "  I've  never 
seen  your  brother  yet  and  he's  never  seen  me." 

"  I've  told  him  you're  lovely,"  says  Katherine. 
"  I'll  bring  him  over  sometime." 

"  I  don't  know  how  I  could  allow  it  after  what  you 
said,"  says  Bonnie  Bell;  "but  if  he's  as  nice  as  you 
I'll  jump  right  square  down  his  throat.  Could  you 
ask  me  to  do  anything  more  than  that  ?  " 

They  giggled,  then,  and  held  hands,  and  ate  candy 
and  drank  tea,  and  talked,  both  with  their  mouths 
full. 

"  Oh,  look  at  the  Wisners'  new  car ! "  says  Kath- 
erine after  a  while,  and  she  run  to  the  window. 

Their  car  was  just  coming  in  to  the  sidewalk  at 
their  curb  now.  From  where  I  set  I  could  see  it. 
Their  driver  opened  the  door  and  Old  Lady  Wisner 
got  out;  then  a  young  man.  They  both  went  out  of 
sight  right  away  around  the  fence  —  you  couldn't  see 
into  their  yard  from  where  we  set. 

The  girls  by  this  time  had  got  so  sometimes  they'd 
talk  about  the  Wisners.  Bonnie  Bell  says  now: 

"Why  don't  you  call  on  the  Wisners  any  more?" 

"  Oh,  because,"  says  Katherine.  "  We're  friendly, 
of  course,  for  the  families  have  lived  in  here  so  long; 

152 


THEIR  HIRED  MAN  COME  BACK 

but  Mrs.  Wisner  and  mommah  haven't  been  very  warm 
since  the  last  Charity  Ball  business." 

"  I  don't  know  about  that,"  says  Bonnie  Bell. 

"  Oh,  Lord !  Yes,"  says  Katherine.  "  They  didn't 
speak  for  a  while.  You  know,  Honey,  the  Wisners 
are  among  our  best  people.  But  then,  mommah's  a 
Daughter  of  the  Revolution  and  a  Colonial  Dame, 
and  a  Patriot  Son,  or  something  of  the  sort  besides. 
Mrs.  Wisner,  she's  only  a  Daughter  and  not  a  Dame ; 
so  she  doesn't  rank  quite  as  high  as  mommah.  Some 
said  that  she  faked  her  ancestors  when  she  come  in 
too.  Anyway,  when  she  tried  for  the  Dames  they 
threw  her  down.  Mommah  was  Regent  or  some- 
thing of  the  Dames  then  too  —  not  that  I  think  mom- 
mah would  do  anything  that  isn't  fair.  But  Old  Lady 
Wisner  got  her  back  up  then,  and  she's  been  hard  to 
curry  ever  since.  We  don't  try." 

"Well,"  says  Bonnie  Bell,  "isn't  that  strange?  I 
thought  everybody  in  the  Row  was  friendly  except  — 
except " 

"  Except  the  Wisners?  "  laughed  Katherine.  "  But 
don't  you  worry.  There's  plenty  of  differences  in 
the  Row.  They  have  their  fallings  out.  You  see, 
they  all  want  to  be  leaders." 

"  I  know,"  says  Bonnie  Bell.  "  In  any  pack  train 
there  always  had  to  be  one  old  gray  critter,  with  the 
bell." 

153 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


"That's  it!"  says  Katherine.  "Well  now,  all 
these  leaders  of  our  best  people  they  want  to  carry  the 
bell  and  go  on  ahead.  That's  what  Mrs.  Wisner 
wants  —  and  maybe  mommah,  though  she  has  a  dif- 
ferent way  of  doing  things.  Mommah's  a  dear !  So 
are  you,  Honey;  and  I  do  wish  Tom  and  you " 

"  I  was  just  wondering  who  it  was  got  out  of  their 
car  just  now,"  says  Bonnie  Bell.  "  But  the 
fence " 

"  Ain't  the  ivy  pretty  on  your  side  of  your  fence  ?  " 
says  Katherine. 

Bonnie  Bell  stood  in  front  of  her  and  looked  at  her 
square. 

"  Look  here,  Kitty  Kimberly,  you're  as  sweet  as 
can  be  and  I  love  you,  but  don't  try  to  keep  up  the  bluff 
about  that  fence.  They  built  it  to  keep  us  —  to  keep 
us " 

"Well,  maybe,"  says  Katherine.'  "But  they 
can't." 

"  They  built  it  to  show  us  our  place,"  says  Bonnie 
Bell,  brave  as  you  like.  "  They  didn't  think  that  — 
they  didn't  know " 

"  It  was  cruel,"  says  Katherine,  red  in  her  face 
now,  she  was  so  mad  about  it.  "  I'm  glad  you  men- 
tioned that  fence  —  I  couldn't ;  but  all  my  people  said 
it  was  the  meanest  thing  ever  done.  It  was  vulgar! 
It  was  low!  That's  what  my  mommah  says.  We 

154 


were  always  sorry  for  you,  but  we  didn't  know 

how But,  Honey,  I'm  glad  you  planted  the  ivy 

on  it.  It  shows  you're  forgiving." 

"  We're  not,"  says  Bonnie  Bell.  "  We're  far  from 
it  —  at  least  my  dad.  He's  awful  when  you  cross 
him.  He  won't  quit  —  he'll  never  quit !  " 

"  We  all  know  that,"  says  Katherine.  "  Everybody 
in  the  Row  does." 

"  I  don't  know  how  much  you  know,"  says  Bonnie 
Bell.  "  I  don't  know  how  much  people  have  talked 
about  us." 

"  Well,  I  can  tell  you  one  thing,"  says  Katherine. 
"  We  heard  some  of  the  talk;  and  I  want  to  say  that 
it  isn't  favorable  to  the  Wisners.  There  are  others  in 
town  besides  them.  Tell  me,  Honey,  aren't  you  all 
the  way  American  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  says  Bonnie  Bell.  "  I  can  be  a  Daughter 
of  the  Revolution  and  a  Colonial  Dame,  and  a  Pa- 
triot Son,  and  all  the  rest,  so  far  as  having  ancestors 
is  concerned." 

"  Could  you  ?  "  says  Katherine.  "  Then  I  rather 
guess  you  will !  " 

"  We  go  back  to  the  Carrolls  a  good  deal,  in  Mary- 
land," says  Bonnie  Bell.  "  You  see,  my  mother  mar- 
ried ray  father  and  went  West,  and  out  there  we 
didn't  pay  much  attention  to  such  things.  I  didn't 
know  they  cared  so  much  here.  But  my  people  were 

155 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


first  settlers  and  builders,  and  always  in  the  army  and 
navy." 

"How  perfectly  dear!"  says  Katherine.  "We'll 
start  you  in  as  a  Daughter;  that'll  make  Old  Lady 
Wisner  mad,  but  she  can't  help  it  —  mommah  will 
take  care  of  that.  Then  we'll  make  you  a  Dame  next 
—  that'll  help  things  along.  And  when  you're  in  two 
or  three  more  of  these  Colonial  businesses,  where  the 
Wisners  can't  get  —  well,  then  I'll  be  more  comfort- 
able, for  one. 

"  I  don't  blame  your  poppah  for  feeling  savage  to- 
wards the  Wisners,"  says  she  after  a  while.  "  Who're 
the  Wisners  anyways?  Carrolls  —  huh!  I  guess 
that's  about  as  good  as  coming  from  Iowa  and  carry- 
ing your  dinner  in  a  pail  while  you're  getting  your 
start  selling  sausage  casings  in  a  basket.  I  don't  think 
a  packer's  much  nohow.  We're  in  leather. 

"  But,  good-by,"  says  she  now.  "  I've  got  to  go 
home.  I've  got  to  tell  mommah  to  get  those  papers 
started.  Pretty  soon  I'll  bring  Tom  over." 

Nothing  much  happened  around  our  place  for  a  lit- 
tle while.  I  didn't  see  nobody  from  the  Wisners'  and 
I  didn't  care  to.  Kind  of  from  force  of  habit  I  used 
to  walk  up  and  down  the  line  fence  once  in  a  while, 
just  to  have  a  eye  on  it.  I  done  that  one  evening  and 
walked  back  towards  our  garridge,  for  it  seemed  to 
me  I  heard  some  sort  of  noise  down  that  way.  It 

156 


THEIR  HIRED  MAN  COME  BACK 

wasn't  far  from  the  end  of  the  wall  that  was  close  to 
the  lake.  I  set  down  and  waited.  It  seemed  to  me 
like  someone  was  trying  to  break  a  hole  through  the 
wall.  I  could  hear  it  plunk,  plunk,  like  someone  was 
using1  a  chisel  or  crowbar,  soft  and  easy,  like  he  didn't 
want  to  be  heard.  I  waited  to  see  what  would  happen. 

By  and  by  I  seen  a  brick  fall  out  on  our  side  of  the 
wall.  I  just  picked  it  up  and  set  there  waiting  to 
bust  in  the  head  of  anybody  that  come  through  after 
the  brick  if  he  couldn't  explain  what  he  was  about. 

The  fellow  on  the  other  side  kept  on  working.  He 
pulled  bricks  out  on  his  side  now.  By  and  by  I  could 
see  light  through  —  it  wasn't  right  dark  in  the  yard 
yet.  He  pulled  out  the  bricks  and  made  quite  a  little 
hole  close  to  the  ground. 

"Hello  there!"  says  he,  soft  like.  "Is  that  you, 
Curly  ?  "  says  he. 

"  Who're  you  and  what  do  you  want?  "  says  I. 

"  I  am  the  hired  man,  Jimmie,"  says  he.  "  I've 
come  back." 

"  The  hell  you  have!  "  says  I.  "  Well,  I  can't  talk 
to  you.  What  made  you  come  back?  Where  you 
been?" 

"  Out  West,"  says  he,  "  on  the  Circle  Arrow  Ranch." 

"What's  that!"  says  I.     "What  do  you  mean?" 

"  Just  what  I  said.  I've  been  working  out  there. 
I  found  I  could  rope  a  little  and  I  didn't  always  fall 

157 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


off  a  horse.     You  see,  the  old  man  owns  a  lot  in  that 
company." 

"  Why  didn't  you  tell  me  you  was  going  out  there?  " 
says  I.  "  And  how  come  these  folks  to  take  you 
back?" 

"  They  couldn't  help  it,"  he  says.  "  I  told  you  I 
had  too  much  on  them.  You'd  ought  to  see  how  things 
is  going  out  there !  They  had  to  take  me  back." 

"  Well,  what  are  you  breaking  a  hole  in  our  fence 
for?  "  says  I.  "  Quit  it!  Do  you  want  to  get  buried 
in  a  sunk  garden,  instead  of  on  the  lone  prairee? 
Leave  our  fence  alone." 

"Your  fence?  It's  our  fence.  Don't  I  know  all 
about  it?  It  was  a  damn  shame,  Curly." 

"What  business  is  it  of  yours?"  says  I  to  him. 

"  Well,  I  hate  to  see  the  family  I  work  for  make 
such  fools  of  theirselfs."  He  was  setting  up  close 
to  the  wall  now,  looking  through.  He  went  on  talk- 
ing :  "  If  I  put  the  bricks  in  again  on  my  side,  and 
you  on  yours,  who'll  know  the  hole's  there  ?  " 

"  We've  got  ivy  on  our  side,"  says  I.  "  It's  green 
and  'most  to  the  top  of  the  wall.  But  I  don't  know 
now  why  you  broke  that  hole  through." 

"  Curly,"  says  he,  "  I  want  to  let  Peanut  through, 
so's  he  can  have  a  good  friendly  fight  with  my  dog 
once  in  a  while.  Sometimes  I'll  pull  some  of  the  bricks 
out.  I  reckon  Peanut'll  do  the  rest." 

158 


THEIR  HIRED  MAN  COME  BACK 

"  Peanut'll  not  dc  no  more  visiting,"  says  I ;  "  and 
I've  got  orders  not  to  have  any  sort  of  truck  with  any- 
one on  your  side  of  the  fence." 

He  set  quite  a  while  quiet,  and  then  says  he : 

"  Is  that  so,  Curly  ?  "  says  he. 

"  It  certainly  is,"  I  answered  him.  "  When  a  thing 
starts,  till  it's  settled  you  can't  stop  Old  Man  Wright. 
Sometimes  he  pays  funeral  expenses,"  says  I,  "  but 
when  anybody  gets  on  the  prod  with  him  I  never  saw 
him  show  no  sign  of  beginning  to  quit.  He  can't," 
says  I ;  "  none  of  them  Wrights  can." 

"  Do  you  mean  they're  all  that  way,  Curly  ?  " 

"  The  whole  kit  of  'em,  me  included,"  says  I,  "  and 
the  servants  within  our  gate,  and  our  ox,  and  our 
hired  girl,  and  all  our  hired  men." 

"  Even  the  maidservant  within  your  gates  ?  "  ast  he 
of  me. 

"  Shore !  "  says  I.     "  Her  especial  and  worst  of  any." 

"  But  you  don't  take  no  hand  in  this  war?  "  says  he. 

"  That's  just  what  I  do,"  says  I  to  him.  "  That's 
what  a  foreman's  for.  You'd  better  plug  up  that 
hole  and  stay  on  your  own  side  of  the  fence." 

He  set  quiet  for  a  time  and  then  he  says: 

"I'm  darned  if  I  do!" 

"  Good-by,  Jimmie,"  says  I. 

"  Oh,  shucks !  "  says  he.  "  I'll  see  you  from  time 
to  time." 

159 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 

I  didn't  make  no  answer  but  to  put  the  bricks  back 
in  the  hole  on  our  side. 

Now  for  reasons  of  my  own,  not  wanting  to  rile 
Old  Man  Wright,  I  didn't  say  nothing  to  him  about 
this  hole  in  the  fence.  Neither  did  I  say  anything  to 
Bonnie  Bell  about  the  hired  man  having  came  back; 
because  she  was  doing  right  well  the  last  day  or  so, 
brighter  and  more  cheerful  than  she  had  been.  That, 
of  course,  was  because  of  what  Katherine'd  told  her 
about  her  brother  Tom.  Any  girl  likes  to  hear  about 
a  young  man  coming  around,  of  course.  Far  as  any 
of  us  could  tell,  Tom  Kimberly  might  be  all  right. 

Bonnie  Bell  now,  all  at  once,  she  taken  to  wanting 
to  go  on  the  lake  with  her  boat,  and  she  insists  our 
chauffore  and  her  and  me  must  go  down  and  fix  up 
the  boat.  We  didn't  none  of  us  like  it  especial,  but 
she  said  she  hadn't  been  on  the  lake  for  so  long  she 
wanted  to  go  once  more  before  it  got  too  cold. 

I  didn't  know  nothing  about  boats,  but  sometimes 
I'd  go  down  to  the  boathouse  and  watch  Bonnie  Bell 
while  she  was  tinkering  with  the  engine  or  something. 
One  day  I  went  down  to  the  boathouse  about  the  mid- 
dle of  the  afternoon,  expecting  to  meet  her  out  on 
the  dock.  All  at  once  I  hear  voices  out  there,  one  of 
them  hers.  I  stopped  then,  wondering  who  could  of 
got  on  our  dock. 

There  wasn't  no  way  from  the  Wisners'  yard  to 
1 60 


THEIR  HIRED  MAN  COME  BACK 

get  on  our  dock  now,  because  the  door  into  their  boat- 
house  had  been  nailed  up.  The  wall  run  clear  down 
to  their  garridge,  and  their  garridge  faced  onto  the 
boathouse,  which  was  lower  down.  The  only  way 
anybody  could  get  on  our  dock  from  their  place  was 
to  get  in  a  boat  and  come  round  from  the  lake.  Then 
it  would  of  been  easy. 

I  said  I  heard  Bonnie  Bell's  voice.  She  was  talk- 
ing; who  she  was  talking  to,  I  didn't  know. 

"  It's  all  wrong!  "  says  she.  "  You  are  presuming 
too  much.  Of  course  I  pulled  you  out  of  the  lake  — 
I  would  anybody;  but  your  employers  are  not  friends 
of  ours.  Even  if  they  were  you've  no  right  in  the 
world  to  speak  to  me." 

Then  I  heard  another  voice.  I  knew  it  was  Jimmie, 
their  hired  man.  He  spoke  out  and  I  heard  him  plain. 

"  I  know  I  haven't,"  says  he,  "  none  in  the  world ; 
but  I've  got  to." 

"  You  must  not !  "  says  she.     "  Go  away !  " 

"  I'll  not,"  says  he.  "  I  can't  help  it !  I  tell  you 
I  can't  help  it." 

Me  being  foreman,  I  reached  around  now  to  get 
hold  of  a  brick  or  something.  I  couldn't  help  hearing 
what  they  said. 

He'd  been  ordered  off;  yet  here  he  was  talking  to 
Bonnie ! 


161 


THE  COMMANDMENT   THAT   WAS   BROKE 

1   STOOD  close  up  to  the  boathouse  door  and  was 
going  to  step  out,  but  what  the  hired  man  was 
saying  to  Bonnie  Bell  was  so  nervy  I  had  to 
stop.     Besides,  I  wanted  to  hear  what  she'd  say  to 
show  him  his  place. 

"  From  the  first  minute  I  saw  you,"  says  he,  "  I 
couldn't  help  it.  I  swore  then  I'd  meet  you  some 
day,  and  sometime " 

"  Is  this  the  way  ?  "  I  heard  her  say,  low. 

"  It's  the  only  way  I  have,"  says  he.  "If  there 
was  a  better,  don't  you  think  I'd  take  it?  But  what 
chance  did  I  have?  I  had  to  make  some  way;  I 
wouldn't  of  been  any  sort  of  man  if  I  hadn't." 

She  must  just  of  stood  looking  at  him.  I  couldn't 
see. 

"  I  had  to  find  some  way  to  tell  you,"  says  he. 
"  What  part  have  I  had  in  this  foolish  squabble  ? 
Was  that  my  fault  ?  I'm  only  a  servant  now ;  but  give 
me  a  chance  to  break  out  of  that.  Why,  when  I  was 
out  West " 

"  Were  you  out  West  ?  "  says  she,  sudden. 
162 


COMMANDMENT  THAT  WAS  BROKE 

"  Yes ;  in  the  Yellow  Bull  Valley,  among  the  cow- 
men—  among  the  real  people.  You  came  from  that 
valley  yourself." 

"Yes,  we  did,"  says  she;  "and  we'd  far  better  of 
stayed  there." 

"  You  couldn't  of  stayed  there,"  says  he.  "  And 
besides,  if  you'd  stayed  there  I'd  never  of  met  you,  or 
you  me." 

"  Indeed !  Was  that  all  my  fortune  —  to  meet  the 
servant  of  my  father's  enemy?" 

"  It's  all  of  mine !  I'm  not  your  enemy.  But  sup- 
pose now  I  went  to  your  father  and  told  him  —  what 
would  he  do?  " 

"  He'd  maybe  kill  you,"  says  Bonnie  Bell  simply ; 
"  or  else  Curly  would." 

"  I  wouldn't  blame  either  of  them,"  says  he.  "  I 
don't  want  to  sneak  around.  I'm  going  away 
again " 

"  What  made  you  come  back  ?  "  she  says. 

"  Because  I  was  sick  in  my  heart.  Because  I 
thought  I  could  look  over  once  in  a  while  and  see  you. 
But  when  I  came  back,  here  was  this  cursed  fence  and 
I  couldn't  see  you  any  more.  I  thought  I'd  go  mad. 
Maybe  I  have;  I  don't  know." 

"  With  or  without  the  fence,"  says  Bonnie  Bell, 
"how  could  our  circles  cross,  yours  and  mine?" 

"  Circles !  "  says  he.  "  Circles !  What  are  circles  ? 
163 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


I've  heard  this  talk  of  circles  all  my  life,"  says  he. 
"  I've  seen  it  going  on  all  around  me.  It's  rot  — 
rot!  It's  my  misfortune  to  find  one  so  far  above 
me." 

"My  money?"  says  she,  scornful.  "I've  a  lot 
of  it." 

He  didn't  say  a  word  to  that  for  a  long  time. 

"Did  you  really  think  that  of  me  for  a  minute?" 
says  he  at  last. 

"  You  take  it  for  granted  that  I've  thought  of  you 
at  all  ?  "  says  she. 

"  I  wouldn't  of  dared,"  says  he  —  and  it  sounded 
like  the  truth,  through  the  door.  "  Don't  class  me 
that  way ! " 

"  How  can  a  girl  tell  ?  "  says  she.  "  Men  talk  like 
this  to  girls " 

"  Have  they  talked  to  you?     Who  was  it?  " 

"  My  social  opportunities,"  says  she  slow  and  bitter- 
like,  "  seem  to  be  confined  to  our  neighbors'  gardener." 

"  Don't!  "  says  he.  "  Oh,  don't!  I  don't  want  to 
see  you  hurt,  even  by  your  own  tongue." 

I  never'd  heard  any  man  hand  out  any  talk  of  this 
sort  to  any  girl  before.  It  was  right  interesting  and 
I  was  glad  I  listened. 

"  How  can  a  girl  tell?  "  says  she,  like  she  was  talk- 
ing to  herself. 

"  Shorely  she  can't  tell  all  at  once,"  he  answers. 
164 


COMMANDMENT  THAT  WAS  BROKE 

"  I'd  never  ask  you  to  do  more  than  wait.  I'd  want 
to  go  away  and  stay  away  till  I  could  come  in  at  your 
front  door  and  be  welcome,"  says  he.  *'  I  wouldn't 
ask  you  to  decide  one  thing  now.  But,  as  for  me,  I 
decided  everything  long  ago." 

She  didn't  say  nothing. 

"  As  to  your  money,"  says  he  after  a  while,  "  listen 
to  me.  Look  at  me  —  look  close.  Look  into  my 
eyes.  Am  I  not  honest?  Tell  me  —  if  truth  like 
mine  can  be  mistaken  for  deceit,  then  what  chance 
has  any  man  on  earth  ?  " 

She  didn't  answer,  and  he  goes  on  like  he  had 
stepped  up  closer  —  I  don't  know  but  what  he  did. 

"  Look  into  my  eyes,"  says  he.  "  Look  at  me  close. 
Maybe  that'll  help  me  some,  for  shorely  you  can  see 
how  much  I " 

"Don't!"  says  she.     "Don't!" 

I  don't  believe  she  looked  into  his  eyes  at  all. 

"  I  wouldn't  touch  you,"  says  he.  "  I  wouldn't 
touch  your  hand  —  I  wouldn't  touch  the  hem  of  your 
garment.  It  wouldn't  be  right.  It  maybe  ain't  right 
for  me  to  think  of  meeting  you  again;  but  it's  right 
this  once." 

She  didn't  answer  at  all.  He  come  to  what  seemed 
to  trouble  him. 

"  Is  it  the  money  ?  "  he  says  again.  "  What's  money 
if  you've  got  nothing  else?  " 

165 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


"Not  much,"  says  she;  "not  very  much." 

"  I've  not  coveted  it,"  says  he.  "  It's  another  com- 
mandment I've  broke.  I've  coveted  that  which  was 
my  neighbor's.  I've  coveted  you  —  no  more,  so 
much!  If  you  and  I  had  a  shack  on  the  Yellow  Bull 
out  there,  and  forty  acres  to  start  with,"  says  he,  "  out 
where  the  sun  shines  all  the  time,  and  the  wind  is 
sweet,  and  the  mountains  rise  up  around  you " 

"  Don't !  "  says  she  again.  "  Don't !  Please  go 
away  —  I  can't  stand  that." 

I  couldn't  stand  it  neither ;  so  I  opened  the  door. 


XVI 

HOW   I    WAS   FOREMAN 

THEY  jumped  apart  —  or  farther  apart  —  when 
I  walked  out.     They  wasn't  holding  hands, 
but  she  must  of  been  looking  at  him  and  him 
at  her. 

"  Miss  Wright,"  says  I,  quiet  —  the  first  time  I 
ever  called  her  Miss  Wright  in  all  my  life  — "  Miss 
Wright,"  says  I,  "  come  up  to  the  house." 

"Curly,"  says  she,  "oh,  don't  —  don't !" 

But  she  seen  I  didn't  have  no  gun. 

"  Get  across  there  quick !  "  says  I  to  him. 

"  You  overheard ! "  says  he.  "  You  overheard 
what  I've  been  saying?" 

"  All  of  it,"  says  I.  "  It  was  my  business  to.  Of 
all  the  low-down  things  any  man  ever  done  in  all  his 
life,  that's  what  you  done  now.  I  heard  it  all." 

"  Stop ! "  says  he.  "  I  won't  stand  that  for  a 
minute." 

"  You'll  stand  it  for  a  lot  longer  than  that,"  says  I. 
"  If  you  show  this  side  the  fence  again  I'll  kill  you! " 

"  Curly !  "  says  he.  "  Why,  Curly !  "—  like  he  was 
surprised.  "  Is  it  like  that?  " 

167 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


"That's  what  it's  like,"  says  I.  "Don't  never 
doubt  we  can  take  care  of  our  womenfolks.  It's  my 
own  fault  this  has  happened.  I  ought  to  of  watched 
her  closter.  I  ought  never  to  of  allowed  you  on  our 
dock,  let  alone  mixing  with  you.  I  thought  you  was 
more  of  a  man  than  this,"  says  I. 

When  I  said  that  Bonnie  Bell  jumped  and  throwed 
her  arms  around  my  neck,  and  held  on  with  both 
hands. 

"  Curly,"  says  she,  "  stop !  I'll  not  have  this. 
Stop,  I  say !  " 

"  You'll  have  this,  and  a  lot  more,"  says  I  to  her, 
"  till  this  thing  is  settled.  Let  me  alone  with  him. 
Haven't  your  pa  and  me  give  up  our  lives  for  you? 
It's  a  fine  trade  you're  trying  to  make;  to  trade  us 
for  a  low-down  coward  like  this.  They  built  that 
fence,  not  us.  Hell  could  freeze  before  your  pa  or 
me  would  ever  cross  it ;  but  here  you're  talking  the  way 
you  done  with  their  hired  man  —  that  has  sneaked 
around  here  to  meet  you." 

He  didn't  give  back  none,  though  he  couldn't  talk 
at  once. 

"  Go  slow !  "  says  he.  "  Curly,  be  careful !  I  didn't 
have  any  other  chance." 

"  Any  other  chance  ?  "  says  I.  "  For  what  ?  To 
make  love  to  a  girl  that  ain't  had  much  experience  — 
to  make  love  to  her  because  she's  got  a  load  of  money  ? 

168 


HOW  I  WAS  FOREMAN 


I've  seen  some  sort  of  dirt  done  in  my  life,"  says  I, 
"  but  this  is  the  lowest  down  I  ever  seen,"  says  I. 

"  And  Bonnie  Bell,"  says  I  —  she  still  had  me 
around  the  neck,  holding  my  arms  down,  and  I  didn't 
want  to  hurt  her — "  how'll  I  tell  the  old  man?  You 
know  I've  got  to  come  through  with  him.  You,  the 
girl  we  loved  so  much,  Bonnie  Bell,"  says  I,  "  we 
never  thought  you'd  class  yourself  below  your  own 
level." 

"  She  hasn't !  "  says  he,  right  sudden  then.  "  It 
wasn't  her  fault.  She  hasn't  promised  a  thing  to 
me,  and  you  know  that.  She's  not  to  blame  for  a 
thing,  and  you  know  that  too.  She  hasn't  said  a  word 
she  couldn't  say  before  all  the  world.  What  more 
do  you  want?  She's  too  good  a  girl  to  get  the  worst 
of  it.  Her  father's  too  good  a  man  to  get  the  worst 
of  it  too.  She'd  never  let  him." 

"She  won't  have  to  do  that,"  says  I.  "I'll  take 
care  of  that.  That's  my  business." 

"  Curly,"  says  she,  "  what  are  you  going  to  do  ? 
Don't  you  love  my  father  at  all  —  or  me?  You're 
like  another  father  to  me.  And  I've  loved  you;  and 
I  always  will,  whatever  you  do  to  me." 

I  couldn't  put  her  arms  down  —  I  wasn't  very 
strong,  because  I  was  thinking. 

"  If  you  tell  my  father,"  says  she,  "  you'd  break 
his  heart.  Cover  it  up  for  me,  Curly  —  I've  not 

169 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


promised  anything.  But,  oh,  Curly,  I  didn't  mean 
harm  to  anyone ;  and  I'll  never  be  happy  any  more." 

"  You  see  what  you've  done ! "  says  I  to  him  after 
a  while. 

He  got  white  now,  instead  of  red. 

"  How  can  I  make  it  up  ?  I  can't  stand  to  hear 
her  talk  that  way,"  he  says. 

"  Whose  business  is  it  how  she  talks  ?  "  says  I  to 
him.  "  Damn  you !  What  right  have  you  to  come 
here  and  make  her  unhappy  for  a  minute?  Didn't 
you  know  how  we  loved  her  ?  " 

"Everyone  does,"  says  he.  "Till  I  die  I'll  do 
that.  How  can  I  help  it  any  more  than  you  can? 
And  if  I've  hurt  her  now,"  says  he,  "  God  do  so  to  me 
and  more  also.  But  I've  declared  myself  —  I'll  not 
take  back  a  word.  I  didn't  lie  then  and  I  won't  now." 

He  seemed  game.  Still,  so  long  as  it's  just  talking, 
you  can't  always  tell  how  much  of  a  bluff  a  man  is 
throwing. 

"If  it'll  make  her  happy  for  me  to  go  away  and 
never  come  back,"  says  he,  "  I'll  do  that.  I  don't 
want  to  play  any  game  except  on  the  square.  Don't 
start  anything  that  can't  be  ever  mended,"  says  he. 

"  It's  started  now,"  says  I.  "  Maybe  you  can  talk 
a  girl  down,  but  you  can't  us." 

"  What're  you  going  to  do,  Bonnie  Bell  ?  "  says  I 
to  her,  and  I  taken  her  hands  now  in  mine.  "  You've 


HOW  I  WAS  FOREMAN 

heard  me  and  you've  heard  him.  Which  do  you  want, 
him  or  us  —  us  that's  loved  you  and  give  you  every- 
thing we  had,  or  him,  this  here  coward,  that  come  in 
the  back  way  —  our  worst  enemy's  hired  man?  You 
got  to  choose." 

I  felt  her  slip  loose  from  my  neck  then.  She'd  kept 
tight  hold  of  me  all  the  time,  so  I  couldn't  do  any- 
thing. I  looked  down  at  her,  and  she  was  all  loose 
and  white.  I  reckon  she  fainted,  though  I  never  seen 
anyone  do  that  before. 

I  laid  her  down  on  the  boards,  and  I  was  so  cold 
mad  clean  through  now  I  couldn't  of  said  a  word. 
I've  felt  that  way  before.  There  ain't  no  law  then. 
But  he  was  white  as  she  was. 

"  Curly,"  says  he,  "  what  have  we  done  to  the  poor 
child?" 

"  She  ain't  your  pore  child,"  says  I ;  and,  with  her 
in  my  arms  and  me  helpless,  I  felt  hot  in  my  eyes. 
"  She's  our  pore  child.  Shut  up  and  go  home !  " 

He  didn't  go  home,  but  went  and  got  some  water  in 
his  hat 

"  It's  cruel,  cruel  —  it's  all  been  cruel  for  her,  who 
deserves  the  best  that  life  could  give.  Can't  you  be- 
lieve me,  man  ?  "  says  he. 

She  couldn't  hear  us  now,  and  even  the  water  I 
poured  on  her  face  didn't  wake  her  up.  I  wouldn't 
let  him  touch  her. 

171 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


"  Lord  help  us  all !  "  says  I.  "  For  now  it's  a  hard 
thing  to  say  what's  best.  Tell  me,"  says  I,  "  was  there 
anything  I  didn't  hear?  Did  she  make  any  sort  of 
promise  to  you?  " 

"  Not  a  word,"  says  he  — "  not  a  word." 

"  That's  lucky,"  says  I.  "  The  Circle  Arrow  never 
went  back  on  its  word.  I'm  glad  she  didn't  promise 
you  nothing,"  says  I. 

"  There's  nothing  matters  now,"  he  says. 

He  set  back  on  his  heels,  looking  at  me  in  a  way  I 
couldn't  stand  —  with  us  both  bending  over  her,  trying 
to  bring  her  to. 

"  I'm  better  than  you  think,"  says  he,  after  a  little 
while.  "  All  this  happened  because  things  got  criss- 
crossed." 

"  You  queered  the  game  the  way  you  played  it,"  says 
I  to  him.  "  The  Circle  Arrow  plays  wide  open,  with 
all  the  cards  on  the  table.  It  beats  hell  how  the  luck 
runs  in  a  square  game  sometimes!  The  front  door 
is  the  place  for  a  man  that  talks  to  a  girl  —  like  Kath- 
erine  Kimberly  comes  in,  or  her  brother,Tom." 

"  Does  she  know  him  ?  "  says  he,  sudden. 

"  That's  our  business,"  says  I.  I  still  was  pouring 
water  on  Bonnie  Bell. 

"  Yes,"  says  he,  "  that's  true.  He's  not  your  ene- 
my's servant." 

About  then  Bonnie  Bell  begun  to  move  her  hands 
172 


HOW  I  WAS  FOREMAN 


and  I  raised  her  up  against  my  knees.     She  set  there 
looking  him  in  the  face. 

"  Kid,"  says  I,  "  you  needn't  rub  your  eyes  and  ast, 
*  Where  am  I  ? '  I'll  tell  you.  You're  right  in  the 
middle  of  one  hell  of  a  muss ! " 


XVII 

HIM   AND   THE  FRONT  DOOR 

I  SENT  the  kid  up  stairs  to  her  room  to  think 
things  over.  Then  I  set  down  in  our  ranch 
room  to  think  things  over  myself,  because  I 
I  didn't  hardly  know  what  to  do. 

While  I  was  setting  there  in  come  Old  Man  Wright 
hisself  from  down  town,  and  he  was  so  happy  I  was 
shore  he'd  thought  out  some  new  devilment  for  his 
neighbor  Wisner. 

"  Well,  Curly,"  says  he,  "  what  do  you  know  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  nothing  that's  pleasant,"  says  I. 

"  Huh ! "  says  he.  "  Don't  you  like  the  grub  here 
no  more,  or  what  is  it?  " 

"I  don't  like  nothing  about  the  place  no  more," 
says  I.  "  I  wish  you'd  foreclose  on  the  Circle  Arrow 
right  away  and  us  all  go  back  there,"  says  I.  "Of 
course  you  wouldn't,  but  that's  where  you  overlook 
a  big  bet,  Colonel." 

He  looks  at  me  serious. 

"  Is  it  as  bad  as  that,  Curly  ?  "  says  he.  "  Some- 
times I  feel  thataway  myself,  although  along  of  me 
being  so  busy  I  can  stand  it  better'n  you,  maybe.  But 

174 


HIM  AND  THE  FRONT  DOOR 

what  kick  have  you  got?  You  ain't  got  nothing  to 
do  —  take  it  all  around,  I  never  seen  a  foreman  that 
had  less,"  says  he. 

"  Huh! "  says  I.     "  That's  all  you  know." 

"  Don't  I  know  all  there  is  to  know?  "  he  ast  me. 

"  No,  you  don't,"  says  I.  "  Don't  I  have  to  ride 
that  line  fence  of  ours  and  ain't  it  the  worst  one  I 
ever  traveled  in  all  my  life?" 

"Don't  let  that  bother  you,  son,"  says  he.  "I'll 
do  the  worrying  about  that." 

Now  when  he  said  this  I  begun  to  think  of  all  he'd 
done  for  me  all  my  life;  of  how  he'd  paid  all  the  bills, 
and  taken  the  responsibility,  and  give  me  my  wages. 
I  didn't  want  to  rake  him  up  the  shoulder  now  by 
telling  him  what  I  was  just  about  going  to  tell  him. 
I  knowed  if  I  told  him  that  his  girl  had  anyways  gone 
against  his  will  it'd  nigh  kill  him  —  and  as  for  this! 
But  I  argued  I  had  to  tell  him.  Then  I  thought  that 
what  a  cowpuncher  concludes  deliberate  is  mighty  apt 
to  be  the  wrong  thing.  So  where  does  that  leave  me  ? 
For  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  didn't  know  whether  to 
back  or  copper  my  own  bet. 

The  old  man  staved  it  off  a  little  while,  anyway. 
He  goes  over  to  the  table  and  begins  to  fill  his  pipe. 

"  Well,  Curly,"  says  he,  "  I  couldn't  foreclose  on 
the  Circle  Arrow  if  I  wanted  to  now  —  they  paid  their 
deferred  payment  for  this  year.  Old  Wisner,  he  got 

175 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


backing  from  three  banks  and  he  come  through.  That 
leaves  only  one  payment  more.  Somebody's  going  to 
be  out  in  the  cold  before  long;  but  it  won't  be  us." 

"  No,"  says  I ;  "  it'll  be  them  grangers." 

"  It  ain't  them  that's  going  to  get  the  worst  of  it 
—  it's  Old  Man  Wisner,"  says  he.  "  As  for  us,  we 
can't  go  back  there  no  more  —  we're  city  folks  now. 
I've  got  to  stay  here  to  watch  Old  Man  Wisner  a  while 
and  you've  got  to  ride  that  fence. 

"  Where's  Bonnie  Bell  ?  "  says  he  then. 

"Huh!"  says  I.  "Where  is  she?  That's  what 
I'd  like  to  know  too." 

"  Come  to  that,  after  all,"  says  he,  smoking  and 
looking  into  the  fireplace,  "  the  girl's  got  me  guessing 
lately.  She  don't  look  well.  Now  she's  up  and  now 
she's  down  —  her  actions  don't  track  none.  If  I 
didn't  know  better  I'd  say  she  was  in  love.  That 
couldn't  be,  for  there  ain't  been  no  chance." 

"Well,"  says  I,  "there's  other  kinds  of  deferred 
payments,  ain't  there,  Colonel  ?  " 

"  Maybe  so,"  says  he,  sort  of  sighing.  "  We'll  let 
it  run  as  it  lays;  we  can't  help  it  much.  Mostly  a 
handsome  girl  finds  somebody  somewhere  or  somehow ; 
or  sometime " 

"  Ain't  that  the  God's  truth,  Colonel ! "  says  I. 

I  was  just  on  the  point  of  telling  him  all  I  knew. 

"  If  only  she  was  safe  from  the  sharks! "  says  he. 
176 


HIM  AND  THE  FRONT  DOOR 

"  If  I  found  any  young  man  that  I  thought  was  after 
her  money,  not  after  her  —  why,  I  don't  know  what 
I'd  do  to  him!" 

"  I  know  what  you'd  do,  Colonel,"  says  I ;  and  I 
was  glad  I  hadn't  told  him. 

"Well,  maybe.  The  trouble  is  to  find  any  young 
man  that's  halfway  as  good  as  her,  with  some  sort  of 
folks  back  of  him  and  some  sort  of  way  of  making 
a  living.  You  see,  Curly,  you  can't  tell  much  about 
things  ten  or  twenty  years  ahead.  A  pore  man  may 
get  money  or  a  rich  man  may  lose  money.  Now  her 
ma  married  me  when  I  didn't  have  no  chance  on  earth 
ever  to  be  anybody  or  to  have  any  money ;  but  we  got 
on  and  was  right  happy  —  anyways  I  was  —  and  I 
wasn't  rich  then. 

"  I'm  awful  rich  now,  Curly,"  says  he,  "  though  I 
don't  know  as  I'm  any  happier.  It  bores  me.  For 
instance,  I  was  looking  around  today  for  a  chance  to 
invest  a  little  more  money ;  not  much,  only  about  half 
of  this  here  last  deferred  payment  that  come  in  —  all 
Old  Man  Wisner's  money  —  and  I  seen  in  the  papers 
that  we  haven't  got  no  potash  works  in  America  to 
amount  to  much,  and  that  potash  is  shore  worth  plenty 
of  money  —  whatever  potash  is.  So  I  went  out  to 
look  over  things  and  I  concluded  to  invest  a  few  hun- 
dred thousand  dollars  in  making  potash.  I've  got  a 
good  man,  with  specs,  that  knows  how  to  make  it  out 

177 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


of  seaweed,  or  something  that  grows  raw  and  is  plenty, 
I  reckon.  I  suppose  pretty  soon  we'll  be  making  forty 
to  fifty  per  cent;  maybe  more.  That's  what  bothers 
me  —  I  can't  find  no  hard  game  to  play.  I  can't 
hardly  take  no  interest  in  life. 

"  I  was  looking  around  some  more  and  I  seen  where 
this  country  ain't  got  no  dye  works  —  the  kind  of  dyes 
they  make  outen  coal  tar,  which  is  made  outen  coal. 
Yet  we've  got  plenty  of  coal  and  I  own  several  coal 
mines  out  in  Wyoming.  I  got  another  man,  with 
specs,  and  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  we'd  be  making  plenty 
of  dyes  before  long,  same  as  they  used  to  import. 

"  Well,"  says  he,  filling  up  his  pipe  again,  "  I'd  be 
happy  enough  fooling  around  this  way,  pushing  in  a 
few  white  checks  once  in  a  while  —  a  few  hundred 
thousand  dollars.  Anyways,  I'd  like  it  if  I  could  lose 
once  in  a  while  —  but  then  there's  the  kid." 

"  It  comes  around  to  her  after  all,  Colonel,  don't 
it?"  says  I. 

"That's  right,"  he  says.  "I  play  the  game;  she 
uses  the  winnings.  She's  going  to  be  one  of  the  rich- 
est girls  in  this  whole  town." 

Seems  like  I  couldn't  get  to  tell  him  what  I  ought  to. 
Every  time  he  came  around  to  the  same  place,  talking 
about  the  kid.  He  didn't  know  as  much  as  I  did.  I 
knew  what'd  make  Old  Man  Wisner  the  happiest  man 
alive  —  he'd  feel  that  way  if  he  knowed  his  hired  man 

178 


HIM  AND  THE  FRONT  DOOR 

had  got  thick  with  our  girl !  He'd  of  encouraged  that 
any  way  he  could  if  he'd  knowed  anything  about  it. 
That  would  of  pleased  him.  I  had  in  my  mind,  too, 
how  Bonnie  Bell  had  looked  at  that  hired  man.  So  I 
set  there,  not  having  said  a  word  yet  and  not  daring  to. 
It  just  seemed  like  I  couldn't  tell  the  old  man. 

It  was  getting  towards  night  now  before  long  and  I 
hadn't  made  no  break  at  all.  I  set  and  set,  and  didn't 
have  no  nerve.  By  and  by  it  was  too  late  to  say  any- 
thing that  night. 

We  heard  Bonnie  Bell  coming  down  the  staircase, 
and  we  went  to  the  door  to  meet  her,  like  we  did  usual, 
because  we  liked  to  do  that;  she  was  so  pretty  when 
she  was  ready  for  dinner.  The  servants  didn't  look 
up  to  her  pa  and  me  very  much,  but  they'd  jump 
through  hoops  all  the  time  for  her. 

She  was  dressed  all  up  now  in  a  pale  blue  dress, 
some  sort  of  soft  silk,  and  she  had  on  all  her  dia- 
monds, for  she  was  shining  all  over.  Her  hair  was 
high  up  and  it  had  a  little  band  on  it,  and  a  little  pile 
of  it  stuck  up  behind  on  her  head.  Her  neck  was  cut 
low,  like  they  wore  'em  at  the  hotel  where  we  lived 
once,  and  her  dress  didn't  have  no  sleeves  in  it.  She 
had  rings  on  her  fingers,  though  not  no  bells  on  her 
toes  —  only  little  blue  slippers;  and  her  socks  was 
pale  blue,  like  we  could  see  when  she  come  down  the. 
stairs, 

179 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 

I  don't  expect  there  was  any  handsomer  woman  in 
the  world  than  she  was  then  —  they  don't  make  'em 
any  handsomer.  We  stood  looking  at  her,  us  two 
cowmen,  both  in  clothes  that  was  always  getting  mussed 
up,  and  with  tobacco  in  the  pockets.  We  couldn't 
say  a  word.  We  got  scared  of  her,  I  said;  you 
would,  often,  when  you  looked  at  Bonnie  Bell,  she 
was  so  pretty.  Yet  she  didn't  know  she  had  such 
looks. 

"  Daughter,"  says  Old  Man  Wright,  and  he  went  up 
to  her  slow,  like  he  was  afraid  of  her,  "  you're  very 
beautiful  tonight,"  says  he.  "What  makes  you  pale? 
You're  a  mighty  fine  girl.  Dast  you  kiss  your  old 
pa  before  he  goes  in  and  gets  into  togs  fit  to  eat  with 
you?" 

She  looks  at  me  and  then  at  him,  and  she  knows  I 
haven't  said  nothing  about  that  talk  with  the  hired 
man.  She  was  pale  and  didn't  smile.  She  went  up 
to  her  pa  like  she  was  tired  —  she  didn't  have  much 
color  that  night  in  her  face  —  and  she  just  puts  up 
her  arms  around  her  pa's  neck  and  laid  her  head  down 
on  his  shoulder,  and  didn't  say  a  word.  She  didn't 
cry;  she  just  let  her  head  lay  there. 

I  seen  his  arm  go  around  on  her  bare  shoulders  easy- 
like  —  he  didn't  hardly  touch  her  for  fear  she'd  break ; 
and  he  didn't  say  a  word.  He  was  that  sort  of  man 
that  almost  any  sort  of  woman  would  like  to  put  her 

180 


HIM  AND  THE  FRONT  DOOR 

arms  around  his  neck  and  lay  her  head  on  him  if  she 
was  in  trouble. 

"  What  is  it,  Honey  ?  "  says  he  at  last. 

"  Why,  nothing,  dad,"  says  she.  "  I  love  you  — 
that's  all.  You  believe  it,  don't  you  ?  " 

"  Will  you  always,  sis?"  says  he,  sort  of  funny. 

"  Always,"  says  she,  quiet.  "  Now,"  says  she,  "  run 
off  and  get  dressed  up.  Have  you  forgotten  that  the 
Kimberlys  are  coming  for  dinner  tonight  with  us? 
Curly,  you  must  go  get  on  some  dark  clothes,  you 
know." 

You  see,  I  was  one  of  the  family.  I  maybe  gave 
them  plenty  of  trouble,  but  they  never 'd  let  me  eat 
anywheres  but  with  them  all  the  time.  By  this  time 
I'd  learned  quite  a  few  things  from  Bonnie  Bell  — 
about  how  not  to  put  a  napkin  up  too  high,  or  to  break 
my  bread  up  into  little  pieces  and  pile  them  up,  or  to 
pour  out  my  coffee,  or  to  use  the  same  spoon  for 
coffee  and  other  vittles,  or  to  sidle  up  my  plate  for  the 
last  drop  of  soup  there  was  in  it  —  oh,  several  tricks 
like  that;  though  I  knew  the  game  was  a  heap  com- 
plicated and  I  hadn't  learned  it  all  yet. 

She  looks  at  me  when  I  went  out  the  door  and  I 
shook  my  head  to  show  I  hadn't  said  nothing.  She 
set  down,  all  in  her  silk  and  her  shining  rings  and 
things,  right  on  our  old  hide  lounge ;  and  she  was  look- 
ing at  our  painting  of  the  Yellow  Bull  Valley  and  the 

181 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


old  ranch  house.  I  left  her  there,  all  in  her  diamonds, 
her  hair  tied  up  high  —  about  the  richest  girl  in  Chi- 
cago and,  like  enough,  the  miserablest  right  then.  But 
she  didn't  have  nothing  on  me  at  that. 

When  we  come  back,  all  fixed  up  the  best  we  could, 
she  was  still  setting  there.  She  was  pretty  —  Lord, 
how  pretty !  —  but  sad. 

She  gets  up  now  and  begins  to  laugh  and  talk  right 
fast  to  the  old  man,  and  by  and  by,  before  anything 
broke,  Old  Man  Kimberly  and  Old  Lady  Kimberly 
drifted  in. 

"The  young  folks'll  be  over  before  long,"  says  he; 
"we  didn't  wait  for  'em,  because  I  just  wanted  a 
taste  of  the  old  bourbon  that  I  find  here  and  can't  find 
anywheres  else.  .Where  did  you  get  it,  Colonel  ? " 
says  he. 

Most  everybody  called  him  Colonel  now,  from  me 
doing  it  first,  and  then  Katherine. 

"  We  had  a  few  barrels  out  on  the  old  ranch,"  says 
the  boss.  "A  little  of  it  escaped  in  the  massacree. 
I'm  glad  you  like  it." 

It  come  now  about  time  for  dinner,  which  was  al- 
ways pulled  off  on  the  tick  of  the  clock.  On  the  ranch 
in  camp  the  cook  always  calls  "  Grub  pile !  "  for  the 
hands.  In  the  home  ranch  he's  more  particular,  and 
he  says,  "  Come  and  git  it ! "  when  dinner's  ready. 
But  here,  in  our  new  house,  our  butler,  William,  al- 

182 


HIM  AND  THE  FRONT  DOOR 

ways'd  gumshoe  in  and  say  it  so  low  you  couldn't 
hardly  hear  him :  "  Dinner  is  served,  Miss  Wright." 
But,  as  them  kids  was  a  little  late  in  coming,  Old  Man 
Kimberly  finds  time  to  take  another  nip. 

"  Why,  Wilfred! "  says  his  wife  to  him,  "  I'm  sur- 
prised!" 

"  It's  funny  how  you're  surprised,"  says  he,  chuck- 
ling in  his  shirt  front;  "  but  I'm  glad  to  have  you  keep 
up  my  reputation  by  saying  you're  surprised." 

Somehow  it  was  with  them  like  it  is  with  plenty  of 
folks  in  the  States  —  the  women  always  seem  finer, 
more  delercate  than  the  men ;  yet  they  seem  to  like  men 
that  ain't  fussy.  Old  Man  Kimberly  was  a  good  sort ; 
but  to  look  at  her  you'd  wonder  why  she  married 
him.  She  always  set  up  straight,  away  from  a  chair 
or  a  sofa  back,  and  she  had  a  face  that  was  clean- 
cut,  like  one  of  them  cameo  faces  on  cuff  buttons. 
Katherine  was  some  like  her  pa,  and  a  good  sort 
too. 

"  How  sweet  you  look  tonight ! "  says  Old  Lady 
Kimberly  to  Bonnie  Bell  after  a  time. 

She  always  seemed  to  want  to  reach  out  and  touch 
Bonnie  Bell,  or  kiss  her  once  in  a  while  —  they  natural 
liked  each  other  —  Bonnie  Bell  especial,  from  never 
having  no  ma  of  her  own,  very  much. 

But  after  a  time  our  William  come  to  the  door  and 
stood  there  like  he  was  a  pointer  dog  and  had  found 

183 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


some  birds;  and  says  he,  with  a  stop  between,  like  he 
always  did: 

"  Miss     Kimberly  —  ahum !    Mr.    Thomas    Kim- 
berly  —  ahum ! " 


XVIII 

HOW   TOM   STACKED   UP 

I  RECKON  if  Katherine's  brother,  Tom  Kim- 
berly,  had  of  knowed  how  much  we  was  waiting 
for  a  look  at  him  he  might  of  been  some  fussed 
up  about  it;  but  when  our  William  brought  him  and 
Katherine  in  he  didn't  seem  rattled. 

He  was  a  right  tallish  young  fellow,  maybe  twenty- 
four  years  or  thereabouts,  slim,  and  with  a  wide  mouth. 
He  had  a  good  deal  of  brown  hair,  which  he  combed 
back  from  his  forehead,  without  no  part  in  it.  He 
was  dressed  up  like  city  folks  do  for  dinner,  and  his 
necktie  wasn't  tied  careless,  but  right  careful.  He 
looked  a  good  deal  like  a  picture  in  a  tailor  shop.  His 
hands  didn't  even  seem  to  bother  him  like  mine  do  me 
sometimes  —  I  often  wisht  a  man  could  have  forty 
pockets  to  put  all  his  hands  into. 

When  he  seen  Bonnie  Bell  he  lit  up.  Katherine 
hurried  him  over  and  put  her  hand  on  Bonnie  Bell's 
arm. 

"  Honey,"  says  she  to  Bonnie  Bell,  "  I've  brought 
over  my  brother  Tom ;  and  I  want  you  to  like  him  and 
I  want  him  to  like  you." 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


"  That's  going  to  be  the  easiest  thing  you  know," 
says  he  smiling. 

He  had  right  good  teeth.  Bonnie  Bell  she  give  him 
her  hand,  her  arm  straight  out  in  front  of  her,  and  I 
didn't  think  she  shook  hands  very  hard;  but  he  did. 
He  kept  on  looking  at  her  like  he  was  fascernated.  It 
was  plain  to  see  that  the  kid  had  him  on  the  ropes  in 
the  first  round. 

We  went  on  to  the  big  dining-room  right  soon. 
This  was  the  first  time  the  Kimberlys  had  ever  et  at  our 
house,  except  cookies  and  tea  and  things  in  the  parlor 
or  in  the  ranch  room.  When  Mrs.  Kimberly  come 
into  our  big  dining-room  she  taken  one  look  up  and 
down.  Maybe  she'd  been  thinking  it  was  like  the 
ranch  room  all  the  way  through.  That  showed  how 
little  she  knew  about  Bonnie  Bell. 

They  was  arranged  in  pairs  as  long  as  the  women 
lasted  —  this  Tom  and  Bonnie  Bell,  of  course,  to- 
gether; and  Mrs.  Kimberly  and  Old  Man  Wright; 
and  then  Catherine  and  me  and  Old  Man  Kimberly. 
William  helped  Old  Lady  Kimberly  and  Bonnie  Bell 
set  down,  like  they  had  rheumatism,  and  I  done  what  I 
could  for  Katherine,  her  and  me  being  pretty  good 
pals.  Old  Man  Kimberly  found  his  cocktail  without 
no  help.  Right  soon  he  set  down  to  have  a  pleasant 
time,  him. 

We  had  a  good  dining-room  —  large,  with  white 
186 


HOW  TOM  STACKED  UP 

trimmings  —  and  some  carpets  that  cost  as  much  as 
two  thousand  dollars  each,  and  chairs  that  matched 
the  table,  and  plenty  of  pictures. 

I  been  around  now  a  lot  among  our  best  people  and 
I  notice  that  unless  you've  got  some  pictures  of  sheep 
in  your  house  you're  no  good.  Any  artist  just  natural 
has  to  paint  sheep ;  yet  that's  the  meanest  anermal  there 
is,  and  I  don't  see  why  a  cowman  especial  should  have 
sheep  in  his  house.  But  we  done  so  because  it  was 
correct  —  though  I've  never  et  sheep  meat.  Also,  a 
couple  of  gondolas,  by  some  Italian,  near  the  sheep. 

Besides  them,  if  you've  got  a  good  house  you've  got 
to  have  one  picture  about  twilight  on  a  lake,  with  a 
broken  tree  on  it  and  some  weeds,  and  a  crane  stand- 
ing there  like  it  didn't  have  no  friends.  We  had  one 
of  them  crane  pictures  too. 

When  Old  Lady  Kimberly  seen  we  had  sheep  and 
gondolas  and  weeds  and  cranes  in  our  house,  same  as 
anybody  else,  she  seemed  to  feel  more  comfortable. 
I  told  Katherine  some  of  those  things  I'd  found  out 
about  art  and  she  come  near  choking  in  her  soup,  and 
said  I  was  awful  funny,  though  I  was  serious. 

"  Everything  you've  got,"  says  she,  "  is  perfectly 
lovely." 

"  She  done  it,"  says  I,  which  was  true.  The  old 
man  and  me,  if  we  was  left  alone,  would  never  of  had 
even  a  picture  of  sheep  in  the  whole  house. 

187 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


Like  enough  you've  been  at  dinners  in  cities  where 
they  don't  have  everything  on  the  table  in  big  dishes, 
like  at  a  ranch,  but  a  little  at  a  time;  so  you've  got  to 
guess  frequent  whether  you're  going  to  get  enough 
to  eat  out  of  things  that's  coming  on  later.  We  was 
pretty  well  trained,  Old  Man  Wright  and  me,  since 
we  come  to  our  new  house,  for  Bonnie  Bell  and  William 
and  all  the  rest  run  a  regular  city  system  on  us. 

Bonnie  Bell  was  easy  as  Mrs.  Kimberly  would  of 
been  at  her  house.  She  didn't  have  to  say  a  word  to 
William;  he  shore  was  some  butler  —  I  reckon  he 
buttled  as  good  as  anyone  in  the  Row.  I  reckon  he 
was  born  a  orphan,  he  looked  so  sad. 

We  had  some  soup  made  out  of  turtle,  which  is 
better'n  you'd  think,  to  look  at  a  turtle.  Afterward 
was  fish  I  couldn't  name.  Then  there  was  ducks  and 
potatoes,  cooked  together  so  you  couldn't  tell  'em  apart, 
and  considerable  other  birds  with  things  put  on;  and 
alfalfa,  with  kerosene  on  it,  maybe.  After  a  while 
comes  soft  cheese,  with  strawberries,  and  yet  softer 
cheese,  with  little  onions  cut  in  it,  if  you  liked  that 
better  —  I  can't  remember  all  them  things  now  or 
how  they  come,  but  we  was  a  couple  of  hours  there 
and  got  considerable  to  eat  before  we  quit.  Also,  Old 
Man  Kimberly  got  plenty  to  drink.  He  says  to  the 
boss: 

"  You'll  excuse  me,  Colonel,"  says  he,  "  but  I  can't 
188 


HOW  TOM  STACKED  UP 

help  saying  a  word  in  favor  of  your  choice  in 
wines." 

And  then — "  Wilfred!  "  says  his  wife,  as  though  it 
wasn't  polite  to  say  you  liked  things. 

Since  Katherine  was  talking  to  me  all  the  time,  and 
since  Tom  couldn't  see  nothing  but  Bonnie  Bell,  I 
reckon  the  whole  party  was  pretty  well  suited. 

After  dinner,  while  we  was  setting  in  the  ranch 
room  —  which  they  all  liked  so  well  — and  could  have 
sherry  or  coffee,  or  both,  or  maybe  Scotch,  Mrs.  Kim- 
berly  kept  on  saying  to  the  old  man : 

"Wilfred,  I'm  surprised!" 

"  So'm  I,  my  dear,"  says  he  — "  surprised  that  we've 
never  been  here  all  the  time  before.  You  may  mark 
us  down  as  steadies  now,"  says  he. 

We  had  in  the  middle  of  the  house,  offen  the  ranch 
room,  a  long  room,  with  a  piano  in  it,  and  a  smooth 
floor,  and  rugs  that  could  be  easy  pushed  away.  Noth- 
ing'd  do  for  them  folks  but  they  must  go  to  dancing 
now.  Sometimes  Katherine  played  the  piano  and 
sometimes  Bonnie  Bell ;  she  shore  could  slug  a  piano 
plenty  when  she  wanted.  She  didn't  get  to  play  much, 
because  Tom  he  wanted  to  dance  with  her  all  the  time 
— turkeys'  trots,  I  think  they  called  it,  or  fox  hops,  or 
something  of  the  kind. 

Seems  like  she  could  do  that,  too,  for  she  had 
lessons  downtown.  When  Katherine  got  Old  Man 

189 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


Wright  to  dance  with  her  there  wasn't  no  one  left  to 
play;  so  we  set  a  music  box  going,  and  Katherine 
made  me  play  on  a  jew's-harp  too. 

Tom  Kimberly  certainly  was  up  in  all  the  late 
steps  of  dancing;  that  was  one  thing  he  could  do. 
While  him  and  Bonnie  Bell  was  dancing  I  could  see  all 
the  old  folks  looking  at  them  quietlike.  It  was  plain 
that  he  was  mighty  hard  hit  with  Bonnie  Bell.  Old 
Man  Wright  he'd  look  at  him  once  in  a  while  —  right 
close  too.  As  for  Bonnie  Bell,  she  was  pleasant,  like 
she  always  was;  but  it  didn't  seem  to  me  she  laughed 
as  much  as  usual.  We  was  all  of  us  showing  off  our 
goods. 

When  they  come  to  go  away,  Katherine  she  hugged 
Bonnie  Bell  tighter  than  ever,  and  Old  Man  Kim- 
berly held  her  hand  for  quite  a  while. 

"  You'll  take  pity  on  a  old  man,  won't  you,"  says 
he,  "  and  come  to  see  us  often  ?  You  really  must." 

"  Yes,  my  dear,"  says  Mrs.  Kimberly ;  "  come  and 
liven  us  up  sometimes.  It's  been  very  delightful  to 
see  you  young  people  enjoy  yourselves  so  much  — 
and  you  old  people  too,"  says  she,  and  laughed  at  her 
husband,  who  maybe  was  some  illuminated. 

It  was  plain  enough  to  me  when  they  went  away 
that  our  place  had  turned  out  better'n  they  thought  it 
would.  Bonnie  Bell,  too,  if  she'd  been  on  inspection 
for  them,  same  as  Tom  Kimberly  was  with  us,  cer- 

190 


HOW  TQM  STACKED  UP 

tainly'd  more  than  made  good.  Likewise,  I  suppose 
our  sheep  and  gondola  pictures  must  of  made  good 
too.  We  couldn't  exactly  of  been  classed  as  heathen 
—  not  unless  me  and  Old  Man  Wright  was. 

We  didn't  say  nothing  to  Bonnie  Bell  about  these 
things,  and  pretty  soon  she  kissed  her  pa  good  night 
and  went  upstairs  to  her  room.  The  old  man  and  me 
set  for  a  while  thinking  things  over. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  him,  Curly  ?  "  says  he  to 
me  after  a  while. 

"  Well,"  says  I,  "  it  ain't  just  as  though  the  cat 
had  brought  him  in.  He's  good-looking,"  says  I, 
"  and  he  can  dance ;  and  he's  a  pleasant  fellow  enough. 
I  only  sort  of  got  it  in  for  people  that  drink  cock- 
tails instead  of  straight  liquor  and  push  their  hair 
back  thataway." 

"  Well  now,"  he  went  on,  "  you've  got  to  allow  for 
differences  in  different  places.  Riding  and  roping 
ain't  so  important  in  Chicago  as  dining  and  dancing 
• —  not  among  our  best  people,"  says  he.  "  You've 
got  to  take  account  of  that.  A  girl  might  do  a  lot 
worse." 

"  There  ain't  nobody  good  enough  for  Bonnie  Bell," 
says  I,  "  when  it  comes  to  that;  but  I  was  just  sort  of 
thinking  I  like  a  man  to  know  something  about  rid- 
ing and  shooting,  and  that  sort  of  thing,  as  well  as 
dancing." 

191 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


"  Curly,"  says  he,  "  you  said  your  pa  was  a  hard- 
shell?" 

"  Yes,"  says  I. 

"  A  hard-shell  Presbyterian  ? "  says  he.  "  Any- 
how, your  folks  must  of  been  right  exacting.  Now 
don't  be  too  hard  on  young  folks." 

"  Listen  to  me,  Colonel,"  says  I.  "  Suppose  you 
had  two  of  'em  right  here  —  one  that  didn't  have 
no  family  nor  no  money,  but  took  to  ranch  work  sort 
of  natural ;  and  one  that  could  dance  and  dine  like  you 
say.  One  of  these  men  parts  his  hair  on  one  side  and 
one  combs  it  back,  without  no  part.  Which  one  of 
'em  would  you  like  most?" 

"  I'd  have  to  see  both  men  and  size  'em  up,"  says 
he.  "  But  what  makes  you  ask  ?  The  other  kind  of 
young  man  you're  talking  about  ain't  showed  up  yet. 
Besides,  one  thing  that  favors  Tom  is  he  don't  have  to 
marry  for  money.  Bless  you;  he  ain't  thinking  of 
her  money  —  not  one  dollar;  just  thinking  of  her, 
right  the  way  she  is.  He's  gone  —  that's  what  he 
is." 

"  That's  so,"  says  I ;  "  that's  certainly  so.  But  how 
about  her?" 

"  They  all  take  their  chances,"  says  Old  Man 
Wright,  solemn,  after  a  while.  "  Anyway  you  can 
fix  it  a  woman  takes  a  chance.  She's  in  a  gamble 
all  her  whole  born  life.  She's  a  gamble  herself  and 

192 


HOW  TOM  STACKED  UP 

she  has  to  play  in  a  gamble  from  the  time  she  begins 
to  toddle  till  the  time  they  fold  her  hands.  She  can't 
tell  if  her  husband's  going  to  stick;  she  can't  tell  if 
her  husband's  going  to  make  good;  she  can't  tell  how 
her  kids  is  going  to  turn  out  —  that's  all  a  gamble 
too. 

"  Do  your  best,  Curly,  and  try  your  damnedest, 
there  ain't  no  way  you  can  protect  no  woman  against 
them  gambles.  If  I  wait  for  exactly  the  right  man  to 
come  along,  that  don't  comb  his  hair  back,  how  do  I 
know  he'll  ever  come?  If  he  does  come  maybe  he'll 
have  a  eye  on  her  bank  roll,  or  maybe  he'll  measure 
forty  inches  around  his  pants.  Either  one  —  ary  one 
—  it's  all  a  gamble  for  a  girl. 

"  No,"  he  went  on ;  "  about  the  only  thing  she  can 
do,  after  all,  is  to  use  her  own  head  and  her  own  heart. 
It  ain't  in  the  nature  of  things  that  you  can  look 
ahead  and  see  how  the  game's  coming  out  for  any 
girl  —  she  has  to  take  her  chances.  We've  got  to 
stand  by  and  see  her  do  it.  I  wisht  it  wasn't  so.  I 
loved  her  ma  so  much,  and  she  looks  so  much  like  her 

ma  —  why,  I  wisht  —  why,  I  wisht Damn  it, 

don't  I  wisht  it  wasn't  such  a  dash-blamed,  all-fired, 
hell-for-certain  gamble  for  the  kid!  " 

It  wasn't  no  time  for  me  to  say  anything  about  any 
hired  man  now !  By  and  by  the  old  man  quit  looking 
into  the  fire  and  got  up  and  went  off  to  bed. 

193 


XIX 

THEM   AND  BONNIE  BELL 

IT  was  a  right  fine  place  for  me  —  probably  not. 
Here  I  was,  foreman  under  full  pay,  and  bound 
to  play  on  the  level  with  the  boss,  to  say  nothing 
of  the  long  time  I'd  worked  for  him.  Of  course  I 
ought  to  tell  him  all  about  that  Wisners'  hired  man; 
but  how  could  I? 

It  come  to  a  question  whether  I  liked  the  boss  best 
or  Bonnie  Bell,  which  is  no  fair  place  to  put  a  man. 
Any  man  is  apt  to  want  to  favor  the  woman  in  a  case 
like  that.  Come  to  get  down  to  cases,  I  found  I  liked 
Bonnie  Bell  a  lot  more  than  I  ever'd  realized  I  did. 
I  was  part  her  dad,  you  know,  and  I  couldn't  stand 
to  see  her  unhappy. 

The  trouble  with  a  cowpuncher,  like  I  said,  is  that 
he  hasn't  got  no  real  brains.  I  never  used  to  notice 
that  before,  because  it  don't  need  no  brains  to  be  a 
puncher,  as  long  as  you  stick  to  the  ranch.  But  here 
I  needed  'em  right  keen  now. 

Every  day  I  walked  the  line  fence ;  but  there  wasn't 
no  work  about  that,  for  the  bricks  was  mostly  stuck 
back  in  the  hole,  and  the  hired  man  that  had  made 

194 


THEM  AND  BONNIE  BELL 

all  the  trouble  he  kept  on  his  own  side  —  I  didn't 
never  see  him  no  more  at  all. 

Bonnie  Bell  didn't  say  a  word  to  me,  nor  me  to  her. 
I  thought  she  ought  to  come  to  me  and  talk  things 
over ;  but  she  didn't.  I  knowed  she  hadn't  said  a  word 
to  her  pa,  and  I  knowed  I  hadn't  neither. 

Tom  he  called  three  times  the  first  week.  I  didn't 
care  much  for  him  someways,  though  I  knowed  I 
ought.  Bonnie  Bell  knowed  she  ought  too.  Her  pa 
knowed  he  ought  too.  If  ever  a  fellow  played  in  a 
game  like  that,  with  all  the  ways  greased  for  him, 
Tom  was  him. 

Old  Man  Wright  he  turns  to  me  one  evening  when 
we  was  setting  by  the  fire  in  our  room,  and  he  says  to 
me: 

"  Well,  Curly,  how  are  you  enjoying  yourself  now 
in  this  hard  and  downtrod  position  that  life  has  gave 
to  you?" 

"  I  don't  like  it  none,  Colonel,"  says  I ;  "  not  none 
at  all,  nohow." 

"  Why  don't  you  join  a  cowpunchers'  union, 
then?"  he  ast.  "Pshaw!  This  is  a  good  town  and 
I  rather  like  it.  The  game  here  is  easy  to  beat  — 
easier  than  it  was  in  Wyoming.  For  instance,  just 
the  other  day  I  bought  a  bunch  of  timber  land  out  in 
Arizony  —  a  place  where  I've  never  been  nor  want 
to  go,  because  they've  got  the  tick  fever  down  there 

195 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


scandalous,  and  irrigation,  which  is  a  crime.  Well, 
I  only  bought  in  on  this  timber  because  a  friend  of 
mine  wanted  me  to  come  in  with  him;  and,  figuring 
I  didn't  know  nothing  about  it,  I  allowed  I  certainly 
would  lose  for  once  —  I  couldn't  tell  a  pine  tree  from 
a  spruce  to  save  my  life." 

"  Huh !  "  says  I.  "  I  suppose  then  somebody  comes 
along  and  offers  you  twice  your  money  for  it, 
maybe  ?  " 

"No;  they  didn't,"  says  he.  "I  was  hoping  they 
would;  but  they  didn't.  No,  it  was  old  Uncle  Sam 
come  along  through  that  part  of  the  state,  and  he  sees 
where  we've  got  about  all  the  best  timber  left  on 
top  of  a  range  of  mountains  in  there,  and  he  allows  he 
ought  to  keep  that  timber  from  ever  being  cut;  so  he 
buys  it  off  us  for  four  times  what  we  give  for  it  —  not 
twice.  Uncle  Sam  pays  in  real  money." 

"  Huh ! "  says  I.  "  I  never  did  have  no  trouble 
like  you  have,  Colonel,  to  find  a  game  where  I  could 
lose  money.  I  suppose  maybe  you  made  seegar 
money  out  of  that  too?" 

"  A  little,  maybe.  I  only  put  in  a  little  in  the  first 
place  —  two,  three  hundred  thousand  dollars;  not 
much.  I  was  so  in  hopes  I  could  lose  some  money 
so  as  to  sort  of  encourage  me  like,  you  know.  But 
it's  no  use,  Curly !  "  And  he  sighs  right  heavy. 

"  You  have  my  symperthy,  Colonel,"  says  I.  "If 
196 


THEM  AND  BONNIE  BELL 

ever  you  want  any  help,  so  as  to  make  the  game  more 
interesting,  just  let  me  set  in  and  take  your  hand  for 
you  —  I'll  guarantee  on  my  record  that  I'll  open  your 
eyes  in  ways  how  to  lose  money." 

"  All  right,  Curly,"  says  he.  "  I'll  ast  you  some- 
time and  maybe  copper  your  bets.  I  always  do  that 
when  my  lawyer  or  my  stockbroker  gives  me  any  tips. 
It's  the  surest  way  in  the  world  to  make  a  killing  in 
this  here,  now,  stock  market. 

"  For  instance,  just  the  other  day  they  told  me 
down  there  to  be  shore  and  buy  a  lot  of  Blue  Moun- 
tain Steel,  which  certainly  was  backed  by  the  J.  P. 
Morgan  interests  and  was  going  to  get  a  lot  of  war 
orders.  So  I  didn't  —  I  bought  Steel  Boat  Electric 
Common  instead  of  that.  I  didn't  know  anything 
about  it,  but  somebody  must  of  give  them  some  war 
orders,  submarines  of  something.  I  notice  our  stock 
has  rose  around  two  hundred  per  cent  the  last  few 
weeks.  I  don't  know  why  it  is  that  things  of  been 
going  on  this  way,"  says  he.  "  It  bothers  me  a  lot, 
Curly.  Yet  I  only  put  a  few  hundred  thousand  in 
that  too. 

"  I'm  setting  aside  two-thirds  of  all  I  make  in  this 
here  city  in  the  kid's  name,  Curly,"  says  he.  "  It's 
a  five  per  cent  trust  for  keeps.  It's  getting  to  be 
something  awful  how  much  that  fund  of  hers  is! 
And,  the  best  I  can  do,  I  can't  help  its  increasing 

197 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


right  along.  There  don't  seem  to  be  no  way  in  which 
we  can  get  broke  and  go  back  to  honest  work  again, 
such  as  raising  cows  —  though  making  four  calves 
grow  where  there  wasn't  none  in  the  sage  brush  be- 
fore, that's  really  being  useful  in  the  world,  war  or 
no  war." 

He  set  there  for  some  time  looking  in  the  fire,  seri- 
ous, and  he  come  around  again  to  the  same  old  place. 

"  Curly,"  says  he,  "  if  there  is  any  created  critter 
on  this  human  footstool  that  I  hate  and  despise,  and 
that  every  he-man  in  the  world  hates  and  despises, 
it's  the  man  that'll  marry  a  girl  for  her  money.  Look 
at  them  dukes  and  things  that  come  over  here  and 
marry  our  American  girls.  I  never  shot  a  duke,  but 
I  will  if  one  of  'em  blows  in  here  and  starts  anything 
like  that  with  our  girl." 

"  Maybe  he  won't  come,"  says  I.  "  You  never  can 
tell." 

"  Curly,"  says  he,  "  you  can  always  tell!  Listen  to 
me.  There's  just  one  thing  certain  in  the  whole 
world  —  or  two.  If  a  girl's  handsome  men'll  come 
around.  If  she's  rich  men'll  come  around.  They  fall 
out  of  the  sky.  They  come  up  out  of  the  ground. 
They  break  in  through  the  fence " 

"What's  that?"  says  I.  "Colonel,  what  do  you 
mean  about  fences?" 

"  I  mean  to  say  that  there  ain't  no  fence  on  earth 


THEM  AND  BONNIE  BELL 

you  could  build  that'd  keep  out  young  men  from  a 
handsome  girl  that's  got  money." 

"Ain't  that  the  God's  truth,  Colonel!"  says  I. 
"  How  come  you  to  figure  that  out?  " 

"  How  ?  How  come  me  to  break  through  the  fence 
that  was  built  around  Bonnie  Bell's  ma,  back  in  Mary- 
land, and  carry  her  away  from  there?  But  when  I 
think  that,  like  enough,  some  low-down  cuss  like  me'll 
come  around  and  break  through  my  fence  and  carry 
off  my  girl,  to  take  such  chances  as  her  ma  done  —  I 
tell  you  it  makes  the  sweat  come  right  out  on  me." 

"  Well,  Colonel,"  says  I,  "  I  reckon  if  any  young 
man  comes  along  here,  no  matter  if  he  gets  in  at  the 
front  door  or  crawls  in  under  the  fence,  he's  got  to 
show  some  revenue  as  well  as  be  all  right  other 
•ways  ?  " 

He  set  some  time  thinking  before  he  answered. 

"  That's  a  right  hard  question,  Curly,"  says  he.  "  I 
wouldn't  bar  a  poor  man  if  I  was  shore  he  was  on  the 
square.  It  wouldn't  be  so  hard  to  decide  if  she  didn't 
have  any  money ;  but  she  has,  and  it  can't  be  concealed 
much  longer." 

He  gets  up  and  walks  up  and  down  a  while  talking. 

"  I  declare,  if  I  was  a  young  man  I'd  never  ast  no 
rich  young  woman  to  marry  me  at  all.  I'd  be  afraid 
to  ast  her,  for  fear  she'd  spot  me  or  accuse  me,  which- 
ever way  it  was.  I  can't  agree  to  no  pore  young  man 

199 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


for  her,  for  I  couldn't  trust  him.  And  I  can't  agree 
to  no  rich  young  man  for  her,  because  none  of  'em 
ain't  worth  a  damm,  as  far  as  I've  seen." 

"  It  looks  like  a  awful  thing,  Colonel,  to  have  a 
cheeild  that's  rich  and  lovely." 

"  Yes,"  says  he;  "  and  it  ain't  no  joke  neither." 

"  Well  now,  Colonel,"  says  I,  "  take  the  houses  in 
this  Row  where  we  live.  How  many  young  men  is 
there  that  we  can  tally  out?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  There  ain't  none  at  all  worth  mentioning  —  be- 
lieve me !  "  says  he. 

I  did  believe  him.  That  left  just  Tom  for  the  en- 
try in  the  Bonnie  Bell  Stakes.  Looked  like  he 
couldn't  lose. 


XX 

WHAT   OUR   WILLIAM   DONE 

NOBODY  said  a  word  to  Bonnie  Bell  about  Tom 
Kimberly  —  neither  her  pa  nor  me;  for  she 
was  so  quiet  and  shut  up  like  we  couldn't 
seem  to  break  in  noways.  We  had  to  let  it  go  like 
it  laid  on  the  board.  One  thing  shore,  being  in  love 
or  not  being  —  whichever  it  was  —  had  changed  Bon- 
nie Bell  a  heap.  She  wasn't  the  same  girl  no  more. 

It  used  to  be  that  Bonnie  Bell  didn't  care  so  ..much 
for  her  piano  as  for  things  out  of  doors,  but  now 
she  taken  to  soaking  that  pore  helpless  thing  —  some- 
times sad  and  lonesome,  and  then  again  so  hard  she'd 
near  bust  the  keys.  Then,  maybe  after  she'd  pasted 
the  stuffing  out  of  it  a  few  times,  she'd  set  looking  out 
of  the  window  with  her  hands  in  her  lap  —  and  so  for- 
getful of  her  hands  that  they  lay  there,  little  as  they 
was,  on  their  backs,  with  the  fingers  turned  up  on  the 
ends,  and  even  her  thumbs.  It  made  me  sorry. 

Then  again  she'd  cut  off  the  music  for  days  and  go 
to  reading  books,  mostly  in  the  window  seat,  her  head 
puckered,  like  it  was  hard  work. 

"What're  you  reading,  Hon?"  says  I  one  day, 

201 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


"  Seems  to  me  it  must  be  a  bad-luck  story.     Also, 
why  have  you  took  to  reading  books  upside  down?" 

"  Nonsense !  "  says  she.  "  I  been  brushing  up  in 
my  sikeology,"  says  she.  "  That  was  one  of  our 
senior  studies  —  the  last  year  I  had  in  Smith's,  you 
know." 

"  What's  it  for  ?  "  says  I.  "  Does  it  say  anything 
about  whether  it's  going  to  rain  next  Tuesday?"  I 
ast  her. 

"  Well,  it's  something  needed  to  train  us  to  meet  the 
problems  of  life  as  they  arrive,  Curly,"  says  she. 

"  Does  it  show  you  how  to  look  any  young  fellow 
in  the  face,"  says  I  —  "  one  that's  got  his  hair  combed 
back  and  no  part  in  it,  and  playing  La  Paloma  on  a 
banjo  or  a  guitar,  and  guess  what  he's  thinking  about, 
Bonnie?  "  says  I. 

She  got  a  little  red  and  tapped  her  foot  on  the  car- 
pet. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Curly  ?  "  says  she. 

"  Nothing,"  says  I.  "  Only  I  was  wondering  if 
they'd  put  me  in  a  long  coat  at  the  wedding.  I  never 
was  backed  into  one  of  'em  in  my  whole  life." 

"  Well,  Curly,"  says  she,  "  if  you  wait  for  my  wed- 
ding you  may  need  the  long  coat  for  your  funeral 
first" 

"  Huh ! "  says  I.  "  Huh !  Is  that  so  ?  You  don't 
know  your  pa  none,"  says  I. 

202 


WHAT  OUR  WILLIAM  DONE 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Curly  ?  "  says  she,  sharp. 

"  He  ain't  going  to  be  boarding  you  all  your  life, 
kid,"  says  I.  "  He  can't  noways  afford  it." 

"I  reckon  dad  isn't  worried  much/'  says  she. 

"  Are  you  so  shore,  kid  ?  "  says  I  to  her.  "  Now 
look  here:  I'm,  say,  half  your  pa.  I  haven't  said  a 
word  to  you  about  certain  things.  What's  more,  I 
haven't  said  a  word  to  your  pa  about  them  neither." 

"  I  know  it,  Curly,"  says  she,  looking  at  me  sud- 
den. "  I  love  you  for  it.  You're  one  grand  man, 
Curly!" 

"  I'm  one  worried  man,"  says  I.  "  I've  gone  back 
on  my  job  with  your  pa." 

"  Do  you  feel  that  way,  Curly?  "  says  she,  and  she 
looked  scared.  "  And  is  that  my  fault  ?  " 

"  I  shore  do  and  it  shore  is,"  says  I. 

"  But  you  haven't  said  a  word." 

"No  —  not  yet." 

"  Don't,  Curly !  "  says  she,  right  quick.  "  Don't  — 
oh,  please  don't !  " 

She  puts  her  hand  on  my  arm  then  and  looks  into 
my  eyes. 

She  had  me  buffaloed  right  there.  I  couldn't  get 
her  hand  off'n  my  arm.  I  couldn't  help  patting  it 
when  it  laid  there. 

"  Aw,  shucks !  "  says  I  to  her.     "  Come  now !  " 

Right  then  our  William  he  come  in  at  the  door,  and 
203 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


stood  there  and  coughed  like  he  done  when  he  had 
anything  on  his  mind. 

"  Ahum !  "  says  he,  sad  like. 

"  What  is  it,  William  ?  "  says  Bonnie  Bell,  looking 
round  at  him. 

"  Beg  pardon,  ma'am,  but  might  Hi  speak  with  Mr. 
Wilson  for  a  moment?" 

You  see,  he  called  me  Mr.  Wilson,  that  being  my 
last  name.  It  was  in  the  Bible,  or  else  I  probably 
would  of  forgot  it. 

"  Oh,  all  right,"  says  I ;  and  I  got  up  and  went  out 
with  him. 

He  was  standing  in  his  little  hall  when  I  come  out, 
and  he  has  our  Boston  dog,  Peanut,  tied  to  a  chair 
leg  there  with  a  piece  of  rope.  Peanut  barked  joyful 
at  me,  thinking  I  was  going  to  take  him  outdoors 
maybe. 

"  Hexcuse  me,  sir,"  says  William,  right  sad, 
"  but  this  little  dog  is  a  hobject  of  my  suspicion, 
sir." 

"What's  that?"  says  I.  "What  do  you  suspect 
him  of  —  embeazlement,  maybe  ?  " 

William  he  stoops  down  then  and  unties  something 
that  Peanut  has  fastened  in  his  collar.  It  was  a  en- 
velope. It  didn't  have  no  name  on  it. 

"  This  is  the  third  one  Hi  found  on  'im,"  says 
William.  "  Hi  'ave  the  other  two  in  my  desk.  Hi 

204 


WHAT  OUR  WILLIAM  DONE 

don't  know,  sir,  for  whom  they  may  be  hintended, 
sir." 

"  Well,  who  sent  'em  ?  Is  anybody  going  to  blow 
up  our  place  unlessen  we  put  twelve  thousand  dollars 
under  a  stone  on  the  front  sidewalk  ?  " 

"  That's  what  Hi  wish  to  hinquire,  sir.  Hi  be- 
came alarmed,"  says  William.  "  Hi  thought  Hi'd 
awsk  you  about  it,  sir,  Mr.  Wright  not  being  at 
'ome." 

"  Why  didn't  you  awsk  Miss  Wright?  "  says  I. 

"  Hi  didn't  wish  to  alarm  her,  possibly." 

We  stood  there,  with  this  letter  in  our  hands,  look- 
ing it  over. 

"  You  say  you  don't  know  where  this  dog's  been  ?  " 
says  I. 

"  Oh,  no,  sir ;  quite  the  contrary.  I  don't  doubt 
he's  often  been  through  the  —  ahum!  —  ahum! " 

"  Well,  how  often  has  he  been  through  the  ahum, 
William  ?  "  says  I.  "  What  made  you  let  him  go  ? 
You  know  it's  against  orders." 

"  Hi  am  quite  hinnocent  of  hany  hin fraction  of  my 
duties,"  says  he.  "  On  the  contrary,  Hi've  watched 
this  Peanut  dog  most  closely,  sir.  Yet  at  times  'e  is 
habsent.  Hi'm  of  the  belief  that  the  notes  come  from 
the  hother  side  of  the  fence,  sir.  But  has  to  their 
haddress,  and  has  to  their  contents,  sir,  Hi  assure  you 
Hi'm  hutterly  hignorant;  and  hit  was  for  that  reason 

205 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


that  Hi  awsked  you  to  come  and  see  this  one.     Hit's 
just  at  'and,  sir. " 

I  taken  all  three  of  them  letters  away  from  him  and 
opened  them,  me  being  foreman;  but  when  I  begun 
to  read  I  didn't  tell  William  what  they  was.  I  only 
laughed  out  loud,  hard  as  I  could. 

"This  is  just  a  joke,  William,"  says  I.  "Don't 
pay  no  attention  to  it.  You  see,  Peanut's  been  over 
there  again,  digging  up  some  petunies,"  says  I. 

I  went  back  into  the  room  where  Bonnie  Bell  was. 
I  looked  at  her  for  a  while. 

"  Miss  Wright,"  says  I  —  the  second  time  I  ever 
called  her  that  — "  I've  played  the  game  with  you  on 
the  square,  haven't  I?  You  thanked  me  for  that." 

"Yes,  Curly;  yes,"  says  she.     "Why?" 

"  Have  you  played  in  on  the  square  with  me  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Curly,  I  have." 

"  I  told  you  not  to  have  nothing  more  to  do  across 
the  fence,  didn't  I  ?  " 

"  Yes.     I  haven't." 

"  Is  that  so,  Bonnie  Bell  Wright?  "  says  I.  "  Then 
what's  this?" 

I  put  in  her  hand  the  note  —  the  one  I'd  read.  It 
was  my  business  to  do  that,  the  way  it  come  to 
me. 

"  Read  it,"  says  I  to  her. 

Near  as  I  can  remember,  it  run  about  like  this : 
206 


WHAT  OUR  WILLIAM  DONE 

Why  don't  you  come  again?  When  shall  I  see  you?  I'm 
in  the  same  place  every  day  and  I  wait  and  wait.  Please  ! 
Please  !  Please  ! 

It  wasn't  signed  with  no  name  —  only  just  "The 
Man  Next  Door." 

Bonnie  Bell  went  pale  as  a  sheet  when  she  read  that. 

"  Curly,"  says  she,  "  I  never  saw  it  before." 

I  'believed  her.     She'd  of  died  rather'n  lie  straight 
out  to  me.     Maybe  she'd  lie  some  —  almost  any  wo- 
man would  —  but  not  straight  out  from  the  shoulder 
between  the  eyes.     So  I  believed  her  now. 
•"  Read  the  next  one,"  says  I. 

"Have  you  read  my  letters,  Curly?"  says  she. 
She  looked  at  me  savage  now. 

"  I  read  one  of  'em,"  says  I,  "  and  part  of  the  next 
one.  I  didn't  only  read  the  first  page  on  that  one. 
I  didn't  read  the  other  one  at  all.  But  I  read 
enough." 

On  the  first  page  of  this  second  letter  was  some- 
thing more: 

I've  waited  and  waited  [it  said].  I  ought  never  to  have 
met  you  as  I  did  —  I  ought  never  to  have  said  what  I  did. 
I  am  in  the  deepest  distress  over  all  this,  for  I  would  not 
be  guilty  of  an  act  to  cause  you  pain.  How  could  I  when 


Right  there's  where  the  first  page  ended  and  the 
second  page  begun. 

207 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


"  Did  you  read  it  all,  Curly  ?  "  says  she  to  me  once 
more. 

"  No;  only  the  first  page,"  I  says.  "  This  last  one 
we  just  took  off'n  Peanut's  collar.  He  brought  'em 
over." 

She  was  reading  the  last  letter  now  —  the  one  I 
never  did  see.  Her  face  got  soft  somehow.  Her 
eyes  got  bigger  and  brighter,  and  softer,  somehow, 
too. 

She  folded  the  letters  all  up  and  put  'em  in  her  lap 
and  looked  up  at  me. 

"  You  didn't  read  all  my  letters,  Curly  ? "  says 
she. 

"  No,"  says  I ;  "  and  I  won't  never  read  no  more. 
There  mustn't  be  no  more,  Bonnie  Bell.  You  know 
that." 

"  Yes,"  says  she ;  "  I  know  that." 

But  somehow  she  didn't  seem  unhappy  like  she 
ought  to  of  been.  I  could  see  that. 

"  How  did  Peanut  get  through  the  fence,  Curly  ?  " 
says  she  at  last. 

"  There's  a  hole  in  the  lower  corner  near  the 
garridge.  I  thought  it  was  kept  shut.  Their  hired 
man  dug  it  through.  He  said  it  was  to  let  Peanut 
through  to  enjoy  hisself  digging  up  their  petunies," 
says  I,  "  or  to  have  a  sociable  fight  with  their  dog.  I 
reckon  that's  how  Peanut  got  through.  It  was  easy 

208 


WHAT  OUR  WILLIAM  DONE 

enough   to    fasten  things  on  his  neck.     Whether  it 
was  a  square  thing  to  do,  him  knowing  what  he  does 

—  well,  that's  something  you  ought  to  know." 
She  didn't  say  anything  at  that. 

"  A  honorable  man,"  says  I,  "  would  of  come 
around  to  the  front  door,  Bonnie  Bell." 

"  He  had  no  part  in  this  quarrel,"  says  Bonnie  Belli 
at  last,  quiet  like.  "  Why  blame  him?  " 

That  made  me  hot. 

"Why  blame  him?"  I  broke  out.  "Didn't  I  t»ee 
him?  Ain't  I  heard  him?  Can't  I  see  now?  He 
ain't  no  part  of  a  man  at  all  or  he  wouldn't  of  done 
this  way.  Now,"  says  I,  "  I've  shore  got  to  tell  the 
old  man.  I  hoped  I  wouldn't  ever  have  to.  But  now 
I  got  to.  The  safest  bet  you  ever  made  is  that  hell 
will  pop ! " 

She  turned  around  right  quick  then  and  jumped  up 
on  her  feet,  and  her  face  was  so  white  it  scared  me. 
She  come  up  again  and  put  her  arms  right  around  my 
neck  and  looked  at  me. 

"Honey,"  says  I,  "you  got  us  in  wrong  —  awful 
wrong !  Now  us  men  has  got  to  square  it  the  best  we 
can." 

"  Stop,  Curly !  "  says  she,  and  she  shook  me  by  the 
shoulder.  "  Stop !  He's  —  he's  a  good  man.  He's 

—  he's  honest.     He's  meant  all  right.     Give  him  a 
chance." 

209 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


"  He  don't  deserve  no  chance,"  says  I,  "  and  he 
won't  get  none." 

"  It  was  the  best  he  could  do!  He  had  no  chance 
to  come  here  openly  —  not  a  chance  in  the  world. 
Maybe  he  only  wanted  to  say  good-by  —  oh,  how  do 
you  know  ?  " 

"  Did  he  say  good-by  or  good  morning  in  that  last 
letter,  Bonnie  Bell?  "  I  ast  her.  "  Not  that  it  makes 
much  difference  either  way." 

"  I  won't  tell  you  what  he  said,  Curly,"  she  flared 
up  at  me  now.  "  I  only  say  he  did  the  best  he  could. 
He  asked  for  his  chance  —  that's  all." 

"  His  chance !  The  hired  man  of  the  worst  enemy 
we  got!  His  chance!  His  chance!  What  chance 
has  he  give  you?  How  fair  is  he  playing  the  game 
where  all  your  happiness  is  up?  Oh,  Bonnie,  shore 
you  don't  care  for  him?"  says  I.  "Now  do  you?" 

She  didn't  say  a  word  and  I  turned  toward  the  door. 

"  Where  you  going,  Curly?  "  says  she,  coming  after 
me. 

"  I'm  going  downtown,"  I  says  to  her. 

"Why?" 

"  To  see  your  pa,"  says  I.  "  I  got  to  tell  him  all 
about  this,  and  do  it  now." 

She  made  a  quick  run  at  me  then,  and  her  arms 
come  around  my  neck  again. 

"  Oh,  Curly !  Curly ! "  she  says ;  and  she  was  crying 

2IO 


WHAT  OUR  WILLIAM  DONE 

now.  "  Oh,  what  have  I  done?  It'll  kill  dad  if  any- 
thing of  this  gets  out  —  I  couldn't  stand  it.  I  can't 
stand  to  think  of  it,  Curly.  I  can't !  I  can't !  " 

"  Why  can't  you,  Bonnie  ?  "  says  I. 

"  Because,  Curly" —  she  got  me  by  the  arms  again 

and  she  was  crying  hard — "because I'll  have 

to  tell  you  —  I'll  have  to,  Curly.  I  can't  help  it !  I 
didn't  want  it  to  happen  —  I  fought  it  to  keep  it  from 
happening  as  long  as  I  could  —  I  didn't  want  it  to  be 
this  way.  It  was  hard  —  so  awfully  hard.  I  tried 
every  way  I  could ;  but  I  can't  —  I  can't  help  it,  Curly ! 
I  can't!  I  can't!  It's  no  use!"  She  just  run  on, 
over  and  over. 

"What  is  it,  Bonnie?"  says  I.  "Do  you  love 
him?" 

"  Yes,  yes ;  it's  true !    I  do,  Curly  —  I  love  him ! " 


XXI 

HER   PA'S   WAY   OF   THINKING 

"H^  TEAR  as  I  can  figure,  Curly,"  says  Old 
^L  I  Man  Wright  to  me  soon  after  what  had 

Jk.  il  happened  between  me  and  Bonnie  Bell  — 
"  near  as  I  can  figure,  Old  Man  Wisner's  been  ad- 
vertising that  the  old  Circle  Arrow  Range  is  a  great 
little  place  for  the  honest  granger  to  raise  bananas, 
pineapples  and  other  tropical  fruits." 

"  It  ain't,"  says  I,  "  except  tomatoes  —  and  them  in 
tin  cans." 

"  The  honest  yeoman,"  says  he,  "  according  to  Old 
Man  Wisner's  description,  he  don't  never  have  to  eat 
anything  as  common  as  bread  and  butter,  not  after 
he's  bought  some  of  that  land  at  four  hundred  and 
fifty  dollars  a  acre.  He  lives  after  that  time  on  bird 
tongues  and  omelet  souflay,  and  all  he  has  to  do  is  to 
set  on  his  wide  veranda  and  watch  his  lowing  herds 
increase  and  multiply  at  eighty-five  dollars  a  head  — 
and  prices  going  up  all  the  time.  Ain't  that  fine, 
Curly?  Things  never  used  to  happen  just  thataway 
when  you  and  me  owned  that  range,  did  they  ?  " 

"  Not  hardly,"  says  I. 


"  No,"  says  the  old  man,  falling  into  one  of  them 
thinking  spells.  "  No ;  they  didn't." 

Then  after  about  half  a  hour  he  says: 

"  Nor  they  can't,  neither.  It'll  cost  that  old  miser, 
Dave  Wisner,  about  three  or  four  million  dollars," 
says  he.  "  He's  put  up  his  life,  his  fortune  and  his 
sacred  honor  on  that  irrigation  scheme,  and  he's  go- 
ing to  be  lucky  if  he  gets  through  with  any  of  them 
before  I  call  it  off." 

"  Colonel,"  says  I,  "  you  and  him  remind  me  of 
two  old  Galloways  out  on  the  range,  standing  head  to 
head,  and  pushing  for  a  couple  of  hours  or  so  at  a 
time  —  only,  you  two  been  pushing  for  a  couple  of 
years." 

"Uh-huh!"  says  he.  "But  I'm  right  cheerful; 
and  I  don't  feel  my  neck  giving  none  yet/'  says  he; 
and  he  rubs  his  hand  up  and  down  it. 

"  Has  Tom  Kimberly  been  here  lately  ?  "  the  old  man 
ast  me,  real  suddenlike,  right  soon  after  that,  though 
I  hadn't  said  nothing  to  him. 

"  He  was  here  this  afternoon,"  says  I.  "  He  ast 
after  Miss  Bonnie.  She  says  she  was  sick,  had  a  cold, 
and  couldn't  see  no  one." 

"  I'll  give  Tom  sixty  days  for  to  propose  to  Bonnie 
Bell,"  says  he.  "  If  he  don't,  then  I'll  have  to.  It 
don't  stand  to  reason  that  girl's  going  to  have  a  bad 
cold  that's  going  to  last  for  sixty  days;  so  she'll  be 

213 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


home  sometimes  when  he  comes  over.  I  know  how 
his  ma  and  pa  feel  about  it,  and  I  know  how  I  feel 
too.  Maybe  we  can  get  Tom  to  part  his  hair  after 
a  while,  or  take  up  some  manly  habit  like  chawing  to- 
bacco instead  of  touching  the  light  guitar.  Just  to 
take  a  look  at  him,  I'd  say  he  shaved  with  one  of  them 
little  razors  like  a  hoe.  For  all  I  know,  he  may  wear 
garters.  Still,  time  alters  many  things. 

"  He's  marrying  into  crowned  heads  when  he  comes 
into  our  family,"  says  he,  going  on,  "  because  I'm  al- 
derman here,  and  if  my  freckles  lasts  I'm  liable  to  keep 
on  being  alderman.  Sometimes  I  wisht  I'd  put  in 
the  papers  that  I  was  clean  broke  and  depended  on 
the  savings  which  a  faithful  old  servitor  —  that's  you, 
Curly  —  had  brung  me  in  my  time  of  need.  But  I'm 
afraid  it's  too  late  for  that  now,  though  the  time  to 
test  them  things  is  before  the  wedding  obsequies  and 
not  after." 

"  Colonel,"  says  I,  "  suppose  a  young  man  would  of 
come  along  that  didn't  have  no  family  back  of  him, 
nor  no  money,  but  parted  his  hair,  and  shaved  with  a 
real  razor,  and  wore  no  garters,  and  et  tobacco,  and 
was  right  husky  looking  —  what  would  you  think?" 

"  I'd  think  the  millennium  had  came,  here  in  Chi- 
cago," says  Old  Man  Wright.  "  I  won't  deny,  Curly, 
if  I  had  found  a  young  man  that  could  ride  setting 
down,  and  chawed  tobacco,  I  wouldn't  needed  to  of 

214 


HER  PA'S  WAY  OF  THINKING 

thought  about  him  twice  —  always  provided  he 
played  a  wide-open  game  and  acted  like  he  knew  what 
he  wanted." 

"  We  don't  seem  to  get  together  none,"  says  I,  de- 
spondent. 

"  Get  together !  "  says  he.     "  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Oh,  nothing,"  says  I. 


XXII 

ME   AND   THEIR   LINE   FENCE 

I    HAD  to  own  it  up  to  myself  — I'd  lost  my 
nerve.     I  tried  more'n  fifteen  times  to  come  out 
and  tell  Old  Man  Wright  about  them  Peanut  let- 
ters  from  their  hired  man  to  Bonnie  Bell,   and   I 
couldn't  —  I  would  see  her  face  every  time  come  in 
between  him  and  me. 

I  kept  my  eyes  on  that  hole  in  the  fence.  I  was 
setting  there  fixing  up  the  bricks,  ready  to  put  them  in, 
when  I  heard  some  one  talking  on  the  other  side  of 
the  fence.  You  couldn't  see  nobody  through  the 
fence,  no  more'n  if  they  was  a  thousand  miles  away; 
but  you  could  hear  'em  talk,  all  right,  there,  through 
the  hole.  I  could  tell  who  one  of  'em  was  —  it  was 
the  voice  of  Old  Lady  Wisner.  She  had  the  sort  of 
a  voice  a  woman  has  who  has  got  a  nose  like  a  eagle. 
But  I  couldn't  tell  who  she  was  talking  to,  for  nobody 
seemed  to  answer  much  at  first. 

"  James,"  says  she  —  "  James,  what  are  you  doing 
there?" 

No  one  answered,  but  I  felt  sure  now  she  was  talk- 
ing to  their  gardener.  So  he  was  home ! 

216 


ME  AND  THEIR  LINE  FENCE 

"  Who  made  that  hole  ?  Who  has  done  this, 
James  ?  "  says  she  again.  "  Who  made  that  hole  in 
the  wall?" 

Still,  he  didn't  answer  none  ;  and  she  went  on  : 

"I  see!  It  must  of  been  some  of  them  awful 
Wrights  that  live  acrost  there.  How  dare  they  break 
through  our  fence?  I'll  have  them  sued!" 

"  Oh,  no,  you  won't.  It  was  done  from  this  side 
—  I  can  tell  you  that." 

I  knew  his  voice.     It  was  him. 

"  Whoever  did  it,"  he  went  on,  "  I'm  going  to  close 
it  up.  I  saw  their  dog  in  our  yard  the  other  day. 
Did  you  see  him  in  here  today?  " 

"No  —  that  same  awful  little  cur?"  says  she. 
"  They  are  the  worst  people,  James  !  I  certainly  am 
glad  you  want  nothing  to  do  with  them,  even  their 
dog.  But,  of  course,  you  couldn't." 

"  No  ;  it  seemed  not,"  says  he. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  says  she,  harshlike.  "As 
for  that  maid  of  theirs,  I  was  inexpressibly  shocked, 

«T 

James,  when  I  found  that  you  so  far  forgot  your- 


"  I  wouldn't  say  any  more,"  says  he. 

"  I  shall  say  all  I  like,  and  you'll  please  remember 
who  you  are!  The  David  Wisners  can't  afford  to 
have  it  understood  that  they  associate  any  way  what- 
soever with  the  Wright  family.  Not  even  our  serv- 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


ants  can  visit  acrost.     I've  been  suspecting  for  some 
time." 

"Well,  that's  plain  enough,"  says  he.  "I  don't 
see  any  use  trying  to  make  it  any  plainer.  There's 
no  use  rubbing  it  in." 

"If  I  had  a  servant,"  says  she,  right  pointed, 
"  who'd  look  at  the  best  of  them  I'd  discharge  him  as 
soon  as  I  knew  it.  I've  got  my  eye  on  Emmy,  my  sec- 
ond-floor maid,  too.  All  I  can  say  is,  you'd  all  bet- 
ter be  more  careful,  or,  the  first  thing  some  of  you 
know " 

"  Naturally,"  says  he,  "  I  can  imagine  that,"  says 
he.  "  It's  hell  to  belong  to  the  lower  classes !  " 

"What  do  you  mean,  James?"  says  she,  solemn. 
"  I'll  not  have  profanity  from  you!  Besides,  you  talk 
like  a  socialist  person,  and  I'll  not  have  that." 

"  Socialist,  eh?  Well,  I'll  admit,  if  I  had  all  the 
money  in  the  world,"  says  he,  "  no  wall  nor  bars 
would  make  any  difference  to  me.  Nor  they  wouldn't 
when  I  didn't  have." 

"  James,  continually  you  shock  me  beyond  words !  " 
says  she,  gasping.  "  What  words  from  one  in  your 
position  in  life! " 

He  didn't  say  much  then,  but  only  sort  of  growled, 
like  he  was  mad. 

"  James,"  says  she,  "  what  on  earth  are  you  doing 
—  what's  that  you're  eating  ?  " 

318 


ME  AND  THEIR  LINE  FENCE 

"  It's  good  old  tobacco  I'm  eating,"  says  he.  "  I 
found  the  brand  out  West  and  I've  used  no  other  since." 

"  James !  James !  "  says  she.  "  You  to  chew  the 
filthy  weed !  It's  impossible !  " 

"  No,  it  ain't,"  says  he.  "  You  watch  me  and  I'll 
show  you  how  far  it  is  from  impossible.  I  chaw  it 
and  I  like  it,  same  as  any  other  socialist;  and  I  want 
you  to  understand,  ma'am,  that  I'm  my  own  man, 
tobacco  and  all,  while  I  stay  here.  If  you  don't  like 
it,  fire  me  again !  " 

She  begun  to  gasp  again,  like  I  heard  her  before. 

"  You  don't  care !  "  says  she.  "  Nothing  is  sacred 
to  you !  " 

Them  two  had  me  guessing.  I'd  heard  of  middle- 
age  women  getting  infaturated  with  chauffores.  Why 
not  gardeners,  then?  Something  was  going  on  be- 
tween them  two,  else  why  should  she  be  so  damned 
jealous?  And  why  should  he  be  so  damned  sassy  to 
her  ?  I  wondered  what  Old  Man  Wisner  would  think 
if  he  knew  what  I  knew  now  about  his  wife.  Didn't 
this  even  things  up  some?  I  wouldn't  tell  him,  of 
course;  but  didn't  it  beat  all  how  many  secrets  I  was 
getting  into? 

Them  folks  didn't  have  so  much  on  us,  after  all; 
for  that  hired  man  was  shore  a  gay  bird,  and  playing 
both  sides  the  fence.  I  seen  he  was  a  socialist,  all 
right  —  but,  Lord,  her,  with  that  face! 

219 


XXIII 

TOM    AND   HER 

TOM  KIMBERLY  he  come  to  our  house  steady 
now.     Every  day  he  sent  flowers  in  bundles, 
like  he  owned   a   flower   ranch  somewhere. 
Bonnie  Bell  put  them  in  the  dining-room,  and  the 
music  room,  and  the  reception  parlors,  and  the  stair- 
case,  and   the   bedrooms  —  and   even   in   our   ranch 
room. 

"  Whatever  the  papers  says  about  bad  crops,  sis/' 
says  I  one  morning  when  a  bunch  of  red  roses  come 
in  about  as  big  as  a  sheaf  from  a  self-binder,  "  the 
flower  crop  is  shore  copious  this  year,  ain't  it?  Like- 
wise it  seems  to  be  getting  better  right  along." 

"He's  a  good  boy,"  says  she  after  a  while — "a 
fine  boy.  And  he  comes  of  such  a  good  family,  and 
I  like  all  his  people  so  much.  And  Katherine  —  what 
could  I  do  without  Katherine?" 

"Uh-huh!"  says  I.  "Of  course  if  you  like  a 
young  man's  sister,  you  ought  to  marry  him.  That 
stands  to  reason,  don't  it  ?  "  says  I. 

"  And  dad  likes  'em  all  —  Mr.  Kimberly  and  Tom's 
mother." 

220 


TOM  AND  HER 


"  Shore  he  does !  For  all  them  reasons  you  ought 
to  marry  the  boy.  Never  mind  about  love." 

"  They're  the  best  people  we've  met  in  this  town," 
says  she,  "  and  there  aren't  any  better  in  any  town. 
They're  not  only  charming  people  but  good  people. 
They've  everything  you  could  ask,  Curly." 

"  Yes,"  says  I ;  "so  it  stands  to  reason  you  ought 
to  marry  that  family,"  says  I.  "  Here's  them  Better 
Things  we  come  for.  Love  ain't  in  it." 

You  see,  I  was  half  her  pa.  Us  two  had  raised  her 
from  a  baby  together.  I  couldn't  tell  the  old  man 
what  I  knew,  but  I  had  to  talk  to  her  like  her  pa  would 
of  talked.  I  allowed,  if  she'd  get  married  to  Tom 
Kimberly  right  quick,  that'd  sort  of  keep  things  from 
breaking  loose  the  way  they  might,  and  keep  me  from 
having  to  tell  Old  Man  Wright  about  the  man  next 
door.  I  knew  plenty  more  about  him  now  that  I 
wouldn't  tell  her.  I  thought  she'd  forget  him. 

Well,  she  set  around  all  that  day  sort  of  moping, 
with  a  green  poetry  book  in  her  lap;  and  she  had  a 
letter  in  her  hands.  It  didn't  come  by  the  Peanut 
route,  neither,  but  by  the  postman.  It  was  square. 

"Tell  me,  is  that  from  Tom  Kimberly,  Bonnie?" 
says  I. 

"  It's  absolutely  none  of  your  business,  Mr.  Curly 
Wilson,"  says  she;  "and  I  wouldn't  tell  you  in  any 
circumstances.  But  it  is." 

221 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


"  Let  me  see  it,"  says  I. 

"  Indeed !  "     She  looks  me  square  in  the  face. 

"  Don't  tell  me  a  word,  sis,"  says  I.  "  I'm  not  so 
hard  as  you  think." 

"  He's  coming  over  tonight,"  says  Bonnie  Bell  to 
me  after  a  time. 

"  That's  to  get  his  answer?  "  asts  I ;  and  she  nodded 
then. 

"  Well,  Colonel,"  says  I  to  the  old  man  that  even- 

'  ing  when  he  come  in  and  we  was  having  a  nip  before 

dinner,  "  I  reckon  I  got  this  thing  all  fixed  up  at  last. 

It's  been  a  hard  pull  for  me,  being  half  a  pa  to  a  girl 

like  ours;  but  I  done  it." 

"Is  that  so,  Curly?"  says  he.  "Well,  it's  been 
some  chore,  ain't  it,  for  both  of  us  ?  Well,  how !  " 

When  Old  Man  Wright  taken  a  drink  he  never  did 
say  "  Here's  how !  "  He  just  said  "  How !  "  which  is 
Western.  When  a  man  says  "  Here's  how ! "  he 
comes  from  the  East  and  is  trying  his  best  to  hide 
it. 

"How!"  says  I.  "And  a  good  health  to  the 
young  and  happy  couple." 

"What's  that?"  says  he,  sudden.  "Has  anything 
happened?  She  hasn't  said  anything  to  me.  Why  is 
she  so  tight-mouthed  with  me,  Curly,  and  so  free  with 


you? 


Oh,   it's  a  way   I   have  with  women,"   says   I. 
222 


TOM  AND  HER 


"  They  all  come  and  tell  me  their  troubles.  It's  be- 
cause I  got  red  hair  and  a  open  countenance." 

"  Tell  me,  what's  my  girl  confided  to  your  red  hair 
and  open  face?  "  says  he.  "  I'd  like  to  know." 

"  You  notice  a  good  many  flowers  around  the  last 
few  weeks  ?  "  says  I. 

"  I  haven't  noticed  nothing  else,"  says  he. 

"  And  that  didn't  make  nothing  occur  to  your 
mind?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  it  did ;  only  I  didn't  want  to  say  any- 
thing to  the  kid  —  I  didn't  want  to  try  to  influence 
her  in  any  way,  shape  or  manner,  in  a  time  like  this. 
Only  I  told  her  quite  a  while  ago  that  Tom  Kim- 
berly  was  the  only  young  man  I  seen  in  town  that 
I'd  allow  to  come  around  at  all.  I  only  said  to 
her  that  the  old  man  was  my  best  friend  and  I  liked 
Tom's  ma  as  much  as  I  could  any  woman  with  gray 
hair. 

"  Still,  I  said  gray  hair  was  all  right  for  a  grandma. 
Why,  Curly,"  says  he,  "  I  been  plumb  thoughtful  and 
tactful.  I  ain't  said  a  word  to  let  Bonnie  Bell  know 
what  I  thought  about  Tom  Kimberly.  I  believe  in 
leaving  a  young  girl  plumb  free  to  follow  her  own 
mind  and  heart." 

"  Uh-huh!  Yes,  you  do!  "  says  I.  "  The  truth  is, 
Colonel,  you  believe  in  running  the  whole  ranch  here 
like  you  done  out  West.  Now  if  you'd  only  keep  out 

223 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


of  this  game  and  leave  me  alone  in  it  you'd  find  things 
would  come  out  a  heap  better,"  says  I. 

"  But  I  just  said  I  ain't  said  a  word,"  says  he. 
"  She  can  do  whatever  she  likes  about  getting  mar- 
ried  " 

"Just  so  she  married  Tom  Kimberly,"  says  I. 
"Ain't  that  about  it?" 

"  Well,"  says  he  at  length,  "  maybe  that's  about  it ; 
yes." 

I  got  up  and  went  out  of  the  room.  I  wouldn't 
talk  to  him  no  more.  He  wasn't  noways  consistent 
with  hisself  and  every  time  I  talked  with  him  it  got 
harder  for  me  to  hold  down  my  job. 

But,  anyhow,  Tom  come  over  that  night.  He 
wouldn't  go  in  the  ranch  room;  but  he  made  some 
sort  of  a  talk  about  music,  one  thing  or  another,  and 
he  toled  Bonnie  Bell  out  into  the  music  room.  But 
she  didn't  play  and  he  didn't.  From  there  they  must 
of  went  out  into  our  flower  house,  which  is  called  the 
conswervatory.  I  didn't  hear  anything  then  for  a 
long  time.  Old  Man  Wright  he  goes  off  to  bed  at 
last,  pleasant  as  if  he'd  ate  all  the  canaries  in  the  shop. 
Me,  I  wasn't  so  shore. 

It  wasn't  right  for  me  to  think  of  them  young  peo- 
ple, I  reckon;  but  I  set  there  restless,  knowing  what 
was  going  on  and  how  much  it  meant,  and  all  the  time 
wondering  just  what  them  two  young  folks  was  talk- 

224 


TOM  AND  HER 


ing  about.  It  made  me  feel  sort  of  dreamy,  too,  and 
I  begun  to  figure  on  this  whole  damn  question  of 
girls  and  young  men.  I  begun  to  see  that  what  Old 
Man  Wright  and  me  had  worked  for  all  our  lives  was 
just  this  one  hour  or  so  in  our  cons \ver vat ory.  It 
was  for  her  —  that  was  all.  If  she  chose  right  now 
she'd  be  happy,  and  so  would  we.  But  if  she  didn't, 
what  was  the  use  of  all  her  pa's  money  and  all  her 
pa's  work? 

What  chance  for  happiness  would  there  be  in  this 
world  for  him  if  she  wasn't  happy?  He  loved  the 
girl  from  the  top  of  her  head  to  her  feet,  like  he'd 
loved  her  ma.  He  was  wrapped  up  in  her.  If  things 
didn't  come  right  it  was  going  to  be  mighty  hard  for 
him.  He'd  never  get  over  anything  that  meant  the 
unhappiness  of  Bonnie  Bell. 

So  what  Tom  was  doing  in  our  conswervatory 
around  ten  or  eleven  o'clock  was  settling  the  happi- 
ness of  Bonnie  Bell  and  her  pa  —  and  me,  if  you  can 
say  I  counted. 

"  Well,"  says  I  to  myself  at  last,  "  this  is  the  way 
the  game  is  played  in  the  cities.  The  girl's  got  to 
figure  on  heaps  of  things  that  don't  bother  so  much 
in  Wyoming.  It  ain't  the  same  as  if  Bonnie  Bell  was 
pore  and  he  was  pore  too.  It's  a  good  match  —  if  any 
match  can  be  good  enough  for  her.  She'll  forget." 

I  could  just  almost  see  her  standing  there  all  in  her 
225 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


pale-blue  silk  and  little  pale-blue  slippers,  with  her  hair 
done  up  in  a  band,  like  she  was  when  she  come  down 
the  stair  that  night,  smiling  but  still  ca'm,  when  she 

knew  Tom  was  coming.  I  could  see  her Aw, 

shucks!  What's  a  cowpuncher  got  to  do  with  things 
like  that?  I  wisht  I  was  out  on  the  range,  where  I 
belonged. 

I  set  there  I  don't  know  how  long  —  maybe  I  went 
to  sleep  once  or  twice  —  when  I  heard  the  front  door 
close  easylike  and  knew  somebody  had  went  out  —  I 
didn't  know  who  it  was.  I  waited  for  a  long  time 
after  that,  but  no  one  come  in  and  no  one  spoke. 

By  and  by  I  heard  her  dress  rustle,  and  she  come 
into  our  room,  where  I  was  setting. 

She  was  white  as  a  ghost  —  I  never  seen  anyone 
as  white  as  she  was.  She  didn't  know  I  was  there, 
and  she  threw  her  hands  up  to  her  face  and  almost 
screamed  when  I  moved.  Then  she  went  over  to  our 
rawhide  lounge  and  set  down,  and  held  her  hands  to- 
gether so  tight  I  could  see  her  knuckles  was  white. 
She  knew  I  was  there,  but  she  didn't  seem  to  see  me. 

I  didn't  say  a  word.  When  a  woman's  fighting  out 
things  in  that  way  it  ain't  no  time  to  meddle.  I 
wisht  I  was  out  of  there,  but  I  didn't  dare  go.  She 
set  and  looked  at  the  fire  and  wrung  her  hands. 
Whenever  you  see  a  horse  wring  his  tail,  he's  done 
for.  Whenever  you  see  a  woman  wring  her  hands 

226 


TOM  AND  HER 


that  way,  she's  all  in;  and  she's  shore  suffering.     But 
I  had  to  stay  there  and  see  her  suffer. 

"Bonnie,"  says  I,  "what  is  it?" 

She  turns  her  eyes  on  me,  and  they  was  wide  open 
and  awful. 

"  Curly,"  says  she,  "  I'm  in  trouble.  It's  awful ! 
I  don't  know " 

"What's  awful?"  says  I.  "What's  happened, 
Bonnie,  girl?  Tell  old  Curly,  and  he  won't  say  a 
word  to  a  living  soul.  I'm  in  with  you,  any  sort  of 
play  —  only  don't  look  that  way  no  more." 

"Curly,"  says  she,  "it's  come!  I  —  I  didn't 
know " 

"What's  come?"  says  I.  "Tell  old  Curly,  can't 
you?  I'll  help  all  I  can." 

She  set  for  a  while,  and  when  she  spoke  it  was  only 
in  a  whisper. 

"I  —  I'm  a  woman  t  "  says  she.  "  I  didn't  know ! 
I'm  —  I'm  a  woman.  I'm  not  a  girl  any  more.  I'm 
a  woman.  .  .  ." 

She  got  up  now  and  stood  there  as  straight  as  though 
she  was  cut  out  of  marble,  and  her  silk  dress  hung 
round  her  legs,  and  she  was  still  wringing  her  hands, 
and  her  eyes  was  wide  open.  But  she  wasn't  cry- 
ing. 

"  I  didn't  know,"  says  she.  "  I  never  knew  it  would 
be  this  way.  I  didn't  know." 

227 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


"You  didn't  know  what,  Honey?"  says  I. 
"  There's  heaps  of  things  we  all  don't  know.  But 
is  there  anything  your  old  friend  Curly  can  do  for 
you  now?  Listen,  sis,  I've  got  you  mighty  much  to 
heart,"  says  I.  "  Tell  old  Curly,  can't  you,  what's 
gone  wrong?  Your  pa  he's  just  gone  to  bed.  Shall 
I  go  and  get  him  ?  " 

"  No,  no,  no !  For  Gawd's  sake,  no !  I  can't  see 
him  —  I  could  never  tell  him." 

"  It's  got  to  be  told,"  says  I. 

Then  she  nodded  up  and  down,  fastlike,  and  didn't 
say  anything. 

"  It  ain't  really  any  of  my  business,"  says  I,  "  but 
have  you  and  him Well  now " 

"  You  men "     She  broke  down.     "  You  men 

—  what  do  you  know  about  a  girl?    What  have  you 
men  done  to  me?  " 

"  We  done  all  in  God  Almighty's  world  we  knew 
how  to  do  for  you,"  says  I.  "  We'd  of  done  more 
for  you  if  we'd  knowed  how." 

"  Ah,  is  it  so !  You've  made  me  the  most  un- 
happy girl  in  all  the  world." 

I  couldn't  say  a  word  to  that.  It  went  through  me 
like  a  knife-cut.  I  was  glad  that  Old  Man  Wright 
wasn't  there  to  hear  it.  I  seen  then  that  him  and  me 
had  failed.  We  could  never  play  no  other  game,  for 
this  was  the  only  girl  we  had. 

228 


TOM  AND  HER 


"  You've  brought  me  here,"  says  she,  "  and  I've 
been  like  a  prisoner.  But  I've  done  all  I  could." 

"  Didn't  you  like  it  here?  "  says  I.  "  We  done  con- 
siderable on  your  account.  Don't  you  like  us  none  ?  " 

"  Like  you,  Curly?"  says  she.  "I  love  you!  I 
love  you ! " 

She  come  now  and  taken  me  by  the  shoulders  and 
shook  me.  I  didn't  know  she  was  so  strong  before. 

"  I  love  you  —  love  both  of  you,"  says  she.  "  I'd 
die  for  you  any  minute,"  says  she.  "  I'd  try  to  cut 
my  heart  out  for  either  of  you  now  —  if  it  come  to 
that.  I  tried  it  now,  tonight.  I  tried  it  for  an  hour 
—  two  hours.  I  didn't  know  what  it  meant  before." 

"  He  ast  you,  Bonnie  ?  "  says  I. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  says  she.  "  The  poor  boy !  I  like  him 
so  much  —  I  pity  him." 

"My  Gawd!  Bonnie,  you  haven't  refused  him?" 
say  I.  "  You  haven't  done  that?  You  haven't  broke 
the  pore  fellow's  heart?"  says  I.  "Why  did 

yOU " 

"  Why  did  you!  "  says  she  after  me.  "  I  told  you 
he  made  it  plain  to  me." 

"  What  was  it  he  made  plain,  Bonnie  ? "  says  I. 
"I  suppose  he,  now,  made  some  sort  of  love?  It 
ain't  for  me  to  talk  of  that." 

"  Yes,  yes !  "  She  says  it  out  sharp  and  high.  "  He 
did.  I  know  now  what  it  means  to  be  a  woman  and 

229 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


in  love.  I  never  knew  that  before.  But  it  wasn't  — 
it  wasn't  for  him !  He  held  me  —  I  was  a  woman  — 

and  it  wasn't  for  him.     How  can  I  love What 

can  I  do  ?  Why,  I  love  you  all,  Curly  —  I  love  you 
all!  I  love  Tom  in  one  way;  and  I'm  sorry,  because 
he's  good.  But  that  isn't  being  a  woman.  It  wasn't 
for  him  —  it  wasn't  for  him !  " 

She  was  sort  of  whispering  by  now. 

"  So  he  went  right  away  ?  "  says  I. 

She  nodded. 

"  Maybe  I've  broken  his  heart.  I've  broken  yours 
and  my  father's  and  my  own  —  all  because  I  couldn't 
help  being  a  woman.  And  I'm  the  unhappiest  woman 
in  all  the  world.  I  want  to  die !  I  don't  know  what 
to  do.  I  want  to  be  square  and  I  don't  know  how." 

"  Bonnie,"  says  I  after  a  while,  slow,  "  I  know  all 
about  it  now.  You've  been  plumb  crazy  and  you're 
crazy  now.  You've  kept  on  remembering  that  low- 
down  sneak  next  door.  You've  turned  down  a  high- 
toned  gentleman  like  Tom  —  and  you  done  it  for 
what?  You  ain't  acted  on  the  square,  Bonnie  Bell 
Wright,"  says  I.  "  It  ain't  needful  for  me  to  tell  all 
I  know  about  him  now.  I  could  tell  you  plenty  more." 

"  No,"  says  she,  and  she  was  crying  now ;  "  it  was 
an  evil  thing  of  me  ever  to  listen  to  him.  I've  done 
wrong,"  says  she.  "  But  what  must  I  do  ?  "  says  she. 
"  Must  I  lie  all  my  life?  I  can't  do  that." 

230 


I  know  now  what  it  means  to  be  a  woman  and  in  love.' 


TOM  AND  HER 


"  Well,  some  women  are  able  to  —  just  a  little," 
says  I.  "  Maybe  you'd  get  over  that  business  of  that 
man  next  door  if  you  was  married  and  had  a  few  kids 
of  your  own  running  around.  You'd  be  happy  with 
Tom.  We'd  all  be  happy.  You'd  forget  —  of  course 
you'd  forget.  Women  are  built  that  way,"  says  I. 
"  I  reckon  I  know !  " 

"  Curly "  And,  though  she  looked  just  like 

she  always  had,  young  and  white  and  beautiful,  and 
fit  only  to  be  loved  by  anybody,  her  face  had  some- 
thing in  it  that  made  her  look  old,  real  old,  like  one 
of  them  statutes  in  our  front  yard. 

She  was  twenty-three,  and  pretty  as  anything  ever 
made  in  "marble  —  and  white  as  anything  in  marble ; 
but  she  looked  a  thousand  years  old  as  she  stood  there 
then.  There  was  something  in  her  face  that  seemed 
to  come  down  from  'way  back  in  the  past.  She  was 
—  well,  I  reckon  she  was  what  she  said  —  a  woman! 

"  Curly,"  says  she,  "  some  women  may  be  able  to 
forget.  It's  the  easiest  way  —  maybe  most  of  them 
do  it.  The  average  woman  lives  that  way.  But  I 
can't,  Curly ;  I  can't  —  it  isn't  in  my  blood.  Women 
like  me  have  got  to  follow  their  own  hearts,  Curly  — 
no  matter  what  it  means. 

"  I  tried  with  all  my  heart  to  lie  to  Tom  tonight. 
I  even  told  him  I  wouldn't  answer  now  —  even  told 
him  to  come  back  again  after  while;  but  I  knew  all 

231 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


the  time  I  couldn't  lie  forever.  I  knew  I  could  love 
some  man  —  a  man  —  but  it  wasn't  for  him.  I'm  like 
my  father  and  like  my  mother,  Curly.  Do  you  want 
to  crush  the  life  out  of  me?  Do  you  want  to  make 
me  do  something  we'd  all  regret  as  long  as  ever  we 
lived?" 

She  stopped  talking  then;  but,  sort  of  swinging 
around,  she  went  on: 

"  It's  been  but  a  little  while,  Curly,"  says  she.  "  It's 
been  but  such  a  little  time!  I  don't  know  whether  I 
can  get  over  it  —  I  don't  know  whether  I  can  forget. 
But,  oh,  Curly,  for  one  hour  let  me  open  my  heart  — • 
for  just  this  time  let  me  be  a  woman!  .  .  .  But  it 
wasn't  for  him !  " 

And  now  she  was  whispering  again. 

"  I'm  a  thief,  Curly !  "  says  she  after  a  while.  "  I've 
stolen  your  life  and  dad's.  I've  taken  all  you  gave 
me.  I  don't  deserve  it." 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  do,"  says  I ;  "  you  deserved  all  we 
done  for  you.  We  loved  you,  Honey,  and  we  do 
now." 

"  But  you  can't  any  more,  Curly,"  says  she.  "  I've 
been  a  thief.  I've  stolen  your  lives  —  from  you  two 
big,  splendid  men.  But,  oh!  give  me  my  hour  —  the 
one  hour  out  of  all  my  life. 

"  I  stole  from  him  too  —  from  Tom,"  says  she. 
"  I've  taken  from  him  what  I  didn't  pay  for  and 

232 


TOM  AND  HER 


can't.     I  never  can.     At  least  I  can't  until  I've  had 
—  my  hour. 

"  A  woman  has  to  face  things  all  her  life,  Curly," 
says  she ;  "  and  always  she  says :  '  Well,  let  it  be ! ' 
She  takes  her  losses,  Curly,  and  sometimes  she  for- 
gets. But  if  she  ever  forgets  what  is  in  my  heart 
tonight  —  if  she  forgets  that  —  then  life  is  never 
worth  while  to  her  again.  There's  nothing  to  do  then 
• — it's  all  a  sham  and  a  fraud.  If  that's  what  life 
means  I  don't  want  to  live  any  more." 

"Bonnie,"  says  I,  "you  mustn't  talk  that  way." 
I  sort  of  drew  her  down  on  my  knee  now,  and  pushed 
her  hair  back  and  looked  at  her.  "  Listen  at  you  — 
you  that  used  to  be  up  in  the  morning  so  early  and 
hoorahing  all  through  the  ranch  —  your  cheeks  red 
with  the  sun,  and  your  hair  blowing,  and  your  eyes 
like  a  deer's !  Why,  nothing  but  life  was  in  the  world 
for  you  then  —  nothing  but  just  being  alive." 

"  I  wasn't  a  woman  then,  Curly,"  says  she.  "  I 
didn't  know." 

"  I  didn't  neither,"  says  I ;  "  and  I  don't  know  now." 

"You    can't,"    says    she.     "It's    terrible!     I'm- 
I  think  I'll  go  now." 

She  taken  herself  off  my  knee  then;  and,  the  first 
thing  I  know,  she  was  gone. 

I  stayed  there  looking  at  the  place  where  she'd  been. 
I  knew  that  now  there  shore  was  hell  to  pay ! 

233 


HOW   BONNIE   BELL   LEFT   US  ALL 

I  NEVER  went  to  bed  none  at  all  that  night.  I 
couldn't  of  slept,  nohow.  I  set  there  in  the 
ranch  room  thinking  and  trying  to  figure  out 
what  I  had  ought  to  do.  I  concluded  that  might  de- 
pend some  on  what  Bonnie  Bell  was  going  to  do ;  and 
I  couldn't  tell  what  that  was,  for  she  didn't  seem  clear 
about  it  herself. 

Along  about  daybreak,  maybe  sooner,  when  I  set 
there  —  maybe  I'd  been  asleep  once  or  twice  a  little  — 
I  heard  the  noise  of  a  car  going  out  not  far  from  us. 
I  suppose,  like  enough,  it  was  over  at  the  Wisners'; 
maybe  some  of  their  folks  was  going  or  coming.  In 
the  city,  folks  don't  use  the  way  they  do  on  a  ranch 
and  night  goes  on  about  the  same  as  daytime. 

I'd  been  studying  so  hard  over  all  these  things,  try- 
ing to  see  how  I'd  have  to  play  the  game,  that  I  didn't 
notice  Old  Man  Wright  when  he  come  in  that  morn- 
ing, about  the  time  he  usual  got  up  for  breakfast.  He 
wasn't  worried  none,  but  seemed  right  happy,  like 
something  was  clear  in  his  mind. 

"Well,  Curly,"  says  he,  "you're  up  right  early, 
234 


HOW  BONNIE  BELL  LEFT  US 

ain't  you  ?     What  makes  you  so  keen  to  hear  the  little 
birds  sing  this  morning?  " 

He  fills  up  his  pipe.     I  didn't  say  nothing. 

"  Well,"  says  he  after  a  time,  smoking  and  looking 
out  the  window,  "  I  suppose  I'm  a  fond  parent  again 
right  now.  Maybe  I'll  be  a  grandpa  before  long  — 
who  can  tell?  I  never  did  figure  on  being  a  grandpa 
in  my  born  days,"  says  he;  "  but  such  is  life." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Colonel  ?  "  I  ast  him. 

"  Well,"  says  he,  "  I  ain't  a  real  grandpa  yet,  maybe, 
but  I  reckon  it's  like  enough.  All  them  flowers  and 
that  sort  of  thing  —  and  that  late  executive  session 
last  night.  When's  the  day  ?  " 

He  still  looks  right  contented.  What  could  I  say 
to  him  then  ? 

"  Too  bad,"  says  he,  "  you  couldn't  of  stayed  up  to 
get  the  happy  news,  Curly !  "  says  he.  "  I  expect  Tom 
Kimberly  would  of  been  right  glad  to  tell  you  or  me; 
but  I  knew  how  the  thing  was  going.  I  been  a  young 
man  once  myself.  He  don't  want  old  people  setting 
round  —  he  wants  the  whole  field  clear  for  hisself. 
It  takes  young  folks  several  hours  sometimes  to  set  and 
tell  things  to  each  other  that  could  be  told  in  just  a 
minute.  Proposing  is  a  industrial  waste,  the  way  it's 
done  customary. 

"Well,  well!"  he  goes  on.  "I'm  glad  my  little 
girl's  going  to  be  so  happy.  She's  a  good  girl  and 

235 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


she  loves  her  pa.  Sometimes  I  even  think  she's  right 
fond  of  you,  Curly,"  says  he.  "  I  can't  see  why. 
You're  a  mighty  trifling  man,  Curly,"  says  he.  "  I 
don't  see  why  I  keep  you." 

Then  I  knowed  he  was  feeling  good.  He  wouldn't 
turn  me  off  noways  in  the  world,  but  he  liked  to  joke 
thataway  sometimes. 

"  Well,"  says  he  after  a  while,  "  what  do  you  say 
about  it  your  own  self,  Curly?  " 

"  I  say  she  loves  you  as  much  as  any  girl  ever  did 
her  pa.  She  loves  me,  too,  though  I  don't  know  why, 
neither." 

"  Shore  she  does !  "  he  nods.  "  And  she'll  do  the 
square  thing  by  us  two  —  that's  shore." 

"Is  it?"  says  I.  "Well,  who  knows  what's  the 
square  thing  in  the  world?  Sometimes  it's  hard  to 
tell  what  is." 

"  That's  so,"  says  he,  thoughtful.  "  Sometimes  it 
is.  I  might  of  liked  some  other  man  better'n  Tom, 
maybe,  if  there'd  been  any  other  man ;  but  there  isn't. 
I'm  glad  she's  taken  him.  He'll  turn  out  all  right. 
He's  a  good  boy  and  his  folks  is  good.  He'll  come 
out  all  right  —  don't  you  worry." 

"•  No,"  says  I ;  "  I  reckon  it'll  do  no  good  to  worry, 
Colonel." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  says  he.  "Ain't  it  all 
right  ?  "  says  he. 

236 


HOW  BONNIE  BELL  LEFT  US 

"  That  remains  to  be  saw,"  says  I. 

"  She  accepts  him,  don't  she  ?  " 

"  If  I  knew  I'd  tell  you,"  says  I ;  "  but  I  don't  know 
for  shore." 

"  Of  course,"  he  says  to  me,  "  the  girl  wouldn't  be 
apt  to  talk  very  free  to  you  about  it,  especial  since 
you  was  in  bed." 

"  Was  I  ?  "  says  I.  "  Oh,  all  right,  if  I  was  in  bed ! 
If  I  didn't  talk  to  Bonnie  Bell  a  while  here  last  night, 
then  everything  is  done,  and  I'm  glad  to  know  it." 

"  Well,  where's  she  now  ?  "  says  he.  "  I'm  hungry 
as  all  get  out ;  and  you  know  I  can't  eat  till  she  comes 
down  to  breakfast  —  I've  got  to  have  her  setting  right 
across  the  table  from  me,  like  her  ma  used  to  set. 
Oh,  hum!  I  suppose  some  day  she  won't  be  setting 
there  no  more.  Just  you  and  me'll  be  setting  there, 
looking  at  each  other  like  two  damn  old  fools.  That's 
what  fathers  is  for,  Curly,"  says  he.  "  That's  the  best 
they  can  get  out  of  the  draw. 

"  Well,  that's  what  I've  been  living  for  ever  since 
she  was  knee-high  —  just  to  make  her  happy;  just  to 
give  her,  like  her  ma  told  me  I  must,  the  place  in  life 
that  she  had  coming  to  her.  No  little  calico  dress 
and  a  wide  hat  for  Miss  Mary  Isabel  Wright  now,  I 
reckon,  Curly.  Her  game  is  different  now.  Them 
Better  Things  is  coming  her  way,  I  reckon  now,  Curly. 
She's  left  the  ranch  and  is  playing  a  bigger  game  — 

237 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


and  she's  won  it.  Well,  I'll  tell  'em  both  how  glad  I 
am;  but  I  wisht  she'd  come  down  to  breakfast,  for 
I'm  getting  right  hungry." 

She  didn't  come.  I  couldn't  say  anything  to  him 
yet,  for  I  didn't  exactly  know  what  the  truth  was; 
Bonnie  Bell  hadn't  told  me  whether  or  not  she  ac- 
cepted Tom,  but  only  said  he  was  going  to  come  back 
again.  I  wisht  she'd  come  down  and  take  this  thing 
off  my  hands,  for  I  was  getting  cold  feet  as  shore  as 
you're  born. 

He  walks  up  and  down,  getting  hungrier  all  the 
time,  and  singing  "Tom  Bass  He  Was  a  Ranger!" 
But  she  didn't  come.  At  last  he  calls  our  William; 
and  says  he  to  William : 

"  Go  send  Annette  up  to  ask  Miss  Bonnie  if  she's 
ready  for  breakfast." 

"  Yes,  sir ;  very  well,  sir.  Hit's  all  growing  quite 
cold,  sir,"  says  William;  and  he  went  away. 

He  come  back  in  a  few  minutes  and  stood  in  the 
door  and  said  his  Ahum!  like  he  always  did,  and  the 
old  man  turned  to  him. 

"Beg  pardon,  sir,  but  Miss  Wright's  mide  says 
Miss  Wright  'as  not  come  in." 

"Not  come  in!     What  do  you  mean?" 

"  She's  not  in  her  room,  sir.  The  mide  thinks  she's 
not  been  in  her  room  during  the  night." 

"What's  that?  What's  that?"  says  he.  "Curly, 
238 


HOW  BONNIE  BELL  LEFT  US 

didn't  you  just  now  say  she  was  here?  Wasn't  you 
up  after  I  was?" 

"  I  seen  her  around  midnight,"  says  I  — "  maybe 
later;  I  don't  know.  I  thought  she  went  to  bed.  I 
never  did  hear  her  go  out.  She  couldn't  of  gone  out 
—I'd  of  heard  her." 

"You'd  of  heard  her!  With  you  in  bed  yourself? 
What  do  you  mean?" 

The  old  man  turned  to  me  now  and  seen  my  face. 
He  come  close  up  to  me. 

"  Where  was  you  ? "  says  he.  "  What  do  you 
mean?" 

"  Colonel,"  says  I,  "  she  was  here  after  midnight. 
I  ain't  been  to  bed  at  all  tonight." 

"  What  did  she  say  to  you  ?  Why  didn't  you  go  to 
bed  ?  Where  is  she  ?  What  have  you  done  ?  " 

"  I  ain't  done  nothing,"  says  I.  "  I've  been  trying 
to  talk  to  you  for  days,  and- 1  couldn't.  I  didn't  know 
what  to  do.  I  didn't  want  to  interfere  in  any  girl's 
business  and  this  shore  is  hers." 

"  It's  hers?  "  says  he,  cold  and  hard.  "  I'm  in  this 
too.  There's  something  in  here  that's  got  to  come 
out.  Come!"  says  he. 

He  motioned  to  me  and  I  followed  him  up  the  stair- 
case to  the  part  of  the  house  that  was  Bonnie  Bell's 
—  the  second  story  and  on  the  corner  toward  the  lake. 
She  had  a  fine,  big  bedroom,  with  wide  windows,  all 

239 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


the  wood  in  white,  and  all  the  silks  a  sort  of  pale 
green. 

We  walked  into  the  room;  and  he  didn't  knock. 
The  room  was  empty!  Her  bed  hadn't  been  slept  in. 
On  a  chair,  smoothed  out,  was  her  pale  blue  dress, 
which  I  remembered. 

"  That's  the  one  she  wore  last,"  says  I,  pointing  to 
it.  "  She's  changed  it." 

"  She's  —  she's  gone !  "  says  her  pa.  "  Gone  — 
without  asking  me — without  telling  me!  Where's 

she  gone  ?  Tell  me,  Curly.  Has  —  has  anybody 

My  girl  —  where  is  she  ?  Tell  me !  " 

He  had  hold  of  my  shoulders  then  and  shook  me; 
and  I  ain't  no  chicken  neither. 

I  got  a  look  at  the  bed  then,  and  there  was  some- 
thing on  the  pillow.  I  showed  it  to  him.  It  was  a 
letter. 

If  you've  ever  seen  a  man  shot,  you  know  how  it 
gets  him.  He'll  stand  for  a  time  like  he  ain't  hurt 
so  bad.  Then  his  face'll  pucker,  surprised,  and  he'll 
begin  to  crumble  down  slow.  That  was  the  way  Old 
Man  Wright  done  when  he  read  the  letter.  It  was 
like  he  was  shot  and  trying  to  stand  and  couldn't,  only 
a  little  while. 

"  She's  —  she's  gone !  "  says  he,  like  he  was  talking 
to  someone  else.  "  She's  run  away  —  from  me ! 
She's  gone,  Curly !  "  He  says  it  over  again,  and  this 

240 


HOW  BONNIE  BELL  LEFT  US 

time  so  loud  you  could  of  heard  it  for  a  block.     "  Our 
girl's  left  here  —  left  her   father  after  all!     Curly, 

tell  me,  what  was  this?    Could  she  —  did  she 

How  could  she?" 

I  taken  the  piece  of  paper  from  his  hand  when  he 
didn't  see  me.  It  said: 

Father  [I  never  knew  her  to  call  him  that  before] 
Father,  I'm  going  away.  I'm  a  thief.  I've  broken  your 
heart  and  Curly's  and  Tom's.  I'm  the  wickedest  girl  in  the 
world ;  and  I'll  never  ask  your  forgiveness,  for  I  don't  deserve 
it.  You  must  not  look  for  me  any  more.  I'm  going  away. 
Good-by ! 

Well,  that  was  all.  The  letter  had  been  all  over 
wet  —  and  a  man  can't  cry. 

"  Curly,"  says  her  pa  to  me — "  why,  Curly,  it  can't 
be!  She's  hiding  —  she's  just  joking;  she  wouldn't 
do  this  with  her  old  pa.  She's  scared  me  awful. 
Come  on,  let's  find  her,  and  tell  her  she  mustn't  do 
this  way  no  more.  There's  some  things  a  man  can't 
stand." 

"  Colonel,"  says  I,  "  we  got  to  stand  it.  She's  gone 
and  it  ain't  no  joke." 

"  How  do  you  know  ?  "  He  turned  on  me  savage 
now.  "  Damn  you !  What  do  you  know  ?  There's 
nothing  wrong  about  my  girl  —  you  don't  dare  to  tell 
me  that  there  is !  She  couldn't  do  no  wrong ;  it  wasn't 
in  her." 

241 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


"  No,"  says  I ;  "  she  wouldn't  do  anything  but  what 
she  thought  was  right,  I  reckon.  But,  you  see,  you 
and  me,  we  never  knew  her  at  all.  I  didn't  till  last 
night  about  half  past  twelve  or  one  o'clock." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?    What  did  she  say  ?  " 

"  She  told  me  she'd  got  to  be  a  woman." 

He  stood  and  looked  at  me;  and  now  I  seen  I  had 
to  come  through,  for  the  girl  couldn't  be  saved  no 
more. 

"  Oh,  hell,  Colonel,"  says  I,  "  I  might  of  known 
all  along  the  thing  would  have  to  come  out  —  it  was 
due  to  break  some  day.  I  ought  to  of  told  you,  of 
course." 

"  What  do  you  mean?  "  says  he;  and  he  caught  me 
once  more  in  his  hands  —  he's  strong  too. 

"  Turn  me  loose,  Colonel !  "  says  I.  "  There  can't 
no  man  put  hands  on  me  —  I  won't  have  it.  I  worked 
for  you  all  my  life  pretty  near,  and  I  done  right,  near 
as  I  knew.  Turn  loose  of  me ! " 

He  let  go  easy  like,  but  kept  his  eyes  on  me. 

"  I  want  to  be  fair,"  says  he,  and  he  half  whispered 
— "  I  want  to  be  fair ;  but,  the  man  that's  done  this'll 
have  to  settle  with  me!  Tell  me,  did  you  and  her 
plot  against  me  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  plot  none,"  says  I.  "  I  was  only  hoping 
she'd  forget  all  about  it  and  get  married  and  settle 
down." 

242 


HOW  BONNIE  BELL  LEFT  US 

"  Forget  about  what  ?  Did  she  have  any  affairs 
that  you  knew  about  ?  " 

I  nods  then.     I  was  glad  to  get  it  off'n  my  mind. 

"Yes,"  says  I;  "  she  did." 

"  Who  was  it,  Curly  ?  "  says  he,  quiet. 

"  It  was  the  man  next  door  —  the  Wisners'  hired 
man,"  says  I. 

I'd  rather  of  shot  Old  Man  Wright  and  killed  him 
decent  than  say  what  I  did  then. 

"You're  a  damn  liar!"  says  he  to  me  at  length, 
quiet  like. 

"  Colonel,"  says  I,  "  you  can't  call  that  to  me,  nor 
no  other  man,  and  you  know  it." 

"  I  do  call  it  to  you !  "  says  he.  "  My  girl  couldn't 
of  done  that." 

"  I  wish  I  was  a  liar,  Colonel,"  says  I ;  "  but  I  ain't. 
I'll  give  you  one  day  to  take  that  back,  and  you  ain't 
going  to  study  about  no  proofs  neither.  I've  worked 
for  you  a  long  time.  I've  loved  the  girl  like  you  did. 
It  ain't  no  way  for  you  to  do  to  talk  thataway  to  me. 
I'll  say  I've  knew  this  some  time  and  tried  to  stop  it 
—  it  was  my  business  to  stop  it.  I  tried  a  hundred 
times  to  tell  you  about  it,  but  I  couldn't  without  pretty 
near  killing  her  and  you  too.  She  ast  me  not  to  tell 
you  and  —  why,  hell!  I  loved  her,  same  as  you  did." 

"  How  far  has  it  gone,  Curly  ?  "  says  he.  He  come 
over  now  and  patted  his  hand  up  and  down  my  shoul- 

243 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


der,  looking  away,  which  was  his  way  of  saying  he 
was  sorry.  "  Don't  mind  me,  Curly,"  says  he.  "  I'm 
crazy!  You  mustn't  mind  me,  but  tell  me  all  you 
know  now.  I  know  you  couldn't  lie  to  either  of  us  if 
you  tried." 

"Yes,  I  could  too,"  says  I;  "but  I  haven't  tried. 
But  I  just  couldn't  go  to  you  and  tell  you  all  this  thing, 
for  I  knew  what  it  would  mean  to  you. 

"  It's  been  going  on  quietlike  for  quite  a  while  and 
I've  been  doing  all  I  could  to  stop  it.  It  begun  maybe 
when  she  hauled  him  out  of  the  lake  —  I  don't  know. 
They  didn't  meet  often.  I  heard  'em  talking  once  on 
the  dock,  and  I  told  him  I'd  run  him  off  if  he  come 
across  the  fence  or  said  another  word  to  her.  She 
begged  for  him  then;  but  I  never  promised  her  noth- 
ing. I  knew  it  was  my  job  as  your  foreman  to  take 
care  of  that,  so  I  didn't  go  to  you." 

"Goon,"  says  he.     "Tell  me!" 

"  She  didn't  say  nothing  to  him  for  a  long  time  — 
she  didn't  meet  him,  not  after  she  said  she  wouldn't. 
Then  he  sent  letters  over  —  tied  to  the  collar  of  our 
little  dog  —  two  or  three  letters;  maybe  four  or  five, 
for  all  I  know.  He  was  crazy  over  her.  All  the 
time  he  owned  up  to  her  and  me  that  he  oughtn't  to 
do  what  he  done.  He  said  in  his  letters  he  oughtn't 
to  raise  his  eyes  to  her  —  he  knowed  he  ought  to  of 
come  around  to  the  front  door  and  not  to  the  back 

244 


door;  and  he  said  that  very  thing.  But  he  said,  like 
a  man  will,  that  he  couldn't  help  it. 

"  She  didn't  never  answer  his  letters,  so  far  as  I 
know.  I  don't  know  as  she  ever  got  any  word  to 
him  at  all.  So  far  as  I  know,  they  never  did  talk 
much,  only  that  one  time  when  I  heard  'em.*  But,  as 
to  something  going  on  —  why,  yes,  it's  been  going 
on  for  quite  a  little  while.  And  I've  knew  it;  I've 
knew  I  ought  to  go  and  tell  you.  And  all  the  time  I 
couldn't,  because  I  loved  her  and  she  ast  me  not  to 
tell." 

"Did  she  ever  tell  you  anything?  Do  you  think 
she  cared  anyway  for  him?  You  see,"  he  goes  on, 
"  I  never  seen  him  to  know  him.  I  don't  know  who 
he  is.  I  didn't  hardly  know  he  was  alive  on  earth. 
Gawd  forgive  me!  I  ought  to  of  known.  I  told  her 
once  not  to  talk  to  that  hired  man ;  but  if  I'd  thought 
anything  of  this  I'd  maybe  of  killed  him  then." 

"Yes;  and  I  ought  to  of  told  you,  Colonel,"  says 
I.  "  It  was  only  the  way  things  happened  and  because 
she  ast  me  not  to." 

"  She  had  that  secret  from  her  father ! "  says  he, 
slow.  "Who  can  tell  what's  in  a  woman's  heart?" 

"  That's  it,"  says  I ;  "  now  you  got  it.  She  was  a 
woman  —  she  told  me  so." 

"  What  more  did  she  say,  Curly  ?  " 

"  Once  she  come  to  me  crying,  and  she  says : 
245 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


'  Curly,  I  love  him ! ' —  she  meant  that  man  next  door. 
And  I  know  for  shore  now  he  wasn't  fit  to  wipe  her 
feet  on." 

Old  Man  Wright  he  set  down  then,  quiet  like.  I 
couldn't  help  him  none.  I  had  to  set  and  see  him 
take  it.  It  was  awful. 

"  She  said  that  —  she  loved  him  ?    How  long  ago  ?  " 

"  A  few  weeks,  maybe,"  says  I.  "  I  never  could 
get  the  nerve  to  tell  you  then.  I  hoped  she'd  get  to  see 
how  foolish  it  was  for  her  to  care  for  a  cheap  gar- 
dener —  I  thought  she'd  be  too  proud  for  that.  And 
then  I  allowed  she'd,  like  enough,  marry  Tom  Kim- 
berly,  and  that'd  change  her  and  it'd  all  come  out  all 
right.  All  the  time  I  was  hoping  and  trying  to  save 
both  her  and  you.  I  been  nigh  about  crazy,  Colonel. 
And  all  the  time,  of  course,  I  was  only  a  damn  fool 
cowpuncher,  without  any  brains." 

"  She's  gone! "  says  he,  after  a  time. 

"  Yes,"  says  I ;  "  near  as  I  can  figure,  she's  thought 
about  it  all  night  and  concluded  it'd  be  best  for  her 
not  to  marry  Tom,  feeling  like  she  did  about  this  other 
man.  She's  shook  us,  Colonel.  But,  believe  me,  she 
wasn't  never  happy  doing  that.  It  must  of  been  like 
death  to  her." 

"Why  did  she  do  it,  Curly?"  he  whispered. 
"How  could  she?  Why?" 

"  I  done  told  you,  Colonel,"  says  I.  "  It  was  be- 
246 


HOW  BONNIE  BELL  LEFT  US 

cause  she  found  she  was  a  woman.     She  hadn't  knew 
that  before  —  nor  us  neither." 

At  length  he  got  up,  but  he  couldn't  stand  up 
straight. 

"  How  can  we  keep  this  quiet  ?  "  says  he. 

We  couldn't  keep  it  quiet  at  all.  It  was  all  over  the 
house  right  now.  That  Annette  girl  had  read  all  them 
Peanut  letters  before  William  ever  got  'em.  Like 
enough  he'd  read  'em  too.  They  was  scared  when  we 
walked  into  their  part  of  the  house. 

"Where's  that  dog?"  says  Old  Man  Wright 

William,  he  got  pale. 

"  Very  good,  sir,"  says  he,  and  pretends  to  go  after 
Peanut,  which  he  knows  wasn't  there. 

"  Hi  suppose  she  took  'im  along  with  'er,  sir,"  says 
William  after  a  while. 

Annette  she  chips  in: 

'"  Oui,  oui  —  yes,  yes;  she  took  him  with  her." 

"  Took  him  with  her  ?  What  do  you  mean  ?  What 
do  you  know  about  it  ?  Keep  quiet,  you  people ! " 
says  Old  Man  Wright.  "  Get  into  that  room !  "  He 
locked  them  in. 

"  Now,  Curly "  says  he. 

I  knew  he  was  clear  in  his  own  mind  by  now  that 
the  girl  had  run  away  with  that  gardener.  He'd 
maybe  go  over  there. 

"No,  Colonel,"  says  I;  "you  keep  out  of  this." 
247 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  says  he.  "  Ain't  you  my 
friend  at  all  ?  Ain't  I  got  a  friend  in  all  the  world  ?  " 

"  You're  alderman  here,"  I  says,  "  and  that's  the 
same  as  being  sher'f.  When  you  was  sher'f  you 
couldn't  do  what  the  law  said  you  couldn't  —  now 
could  you?  You  have  to  keep  up  the  law  when  you're 
a  alderman  or  sher'f.  With  me,  it's  different.  Be- 
sides, this  is  my  job,  not  yours." 

"  Curly,"  says  he,  and  I  could  see  his  jaw  get  hard 
all  along  the  aidge,  "  Curly,  ain't  there  no  place  on 
earth  for  a  pore  old  broken-hearted  man  ?  " 

"  Never  mind  just  yet,  Colonel,"  says  I.  "  It  ain't 
your  turn,"  says  I  — "  that's  all.  Sometimes,"  I  says 
to  him,  "  it's  best  to  go  a  little  slow  at  first  and  not 
make  no  foolish  breaks.  Let's  just  take  it  easy  till  we 
see  which  way  the  cat  has  jumped  —  we  don't  know 
much  yet." 

"  She  —  she  wouldn't  kill  herself  ?  "  says  he  sudden ; 
and  he  got  even  whiter. 

"  I  don't  think  so,"  I  says ;  "  and  I'll  tell  you  why. 
I  don't  think  she  was  thinking  so  much  of  dying  when 
she  said  *  I  am  a  woman/  It  was  life ! " 

He  looked  at  me  quiet. 

"She  said  that?" 

"  Uh-huh !  —  sever'l  times.  And  it  was  like  you 
said,  Colonel,  after  all.  There  ain't  no  fence  high 
enough  to  keep  a  young  man  and  a  young  woman 

248 


HOW  BONNIE  BELL  LEFT  US 

apart.  It  was  bound  to  come,  and  we  didn't  know 
it  — that's  all." 

"  We  give  her  every  chance.     There  was  Tom." 

"  Yes,"  says  I ;  "  and  there  was  the  man  next  door. 
These  things  goes  by  guess  and  by  Gawd.  For  in- 
stance," says  I,  "  what  in  the  world  could  Bonnie 
Bell's  ma  ever  see  in  you,  Colonel  ?  " 

That  hit  him  hard,  though  I  didn't  mean  it  that  way. 
He  turned  his  face  away,  like  he  seen  something  aw- 
ful before  him. 

"  My  Gawd !  "  says  he.  "  I  done  that  my  own  self ! 
I  stole  her  ma  away.  She  loved  me  and  I  loved  her. 
Ain't  there  no  one  to  show  a  pore  old  helpless  man 
what  he  ought  to  do  ?  " 

"  It's  life,  and  she  showed  us  the  way,"  says  I. 
"  When  you  stole  Bonnie  Bell's  ma  you  was  ready 
to  meet  her  folks,  I  reckon,  if  they  come  to  take  her 
away.  You  taken  your  chance  when  you  married 
her.  So's  the  man  that's  run  off  with  Bonnie  Bell. 
Let  him  have  a  even  break,  Colonel.  He  loves  her, 
maybe  —  and  he  seems  to  have  a  way  with  women." 

"  He's  ruined  her!  "  says  Old  Man  Wright.  "  It's 
marriage  he  was  after,  of  course;  but  look  at  the  dif- 
ference. I  never  touched  a  cent  of  her  ma's  money. 
We  made  our  own  way.  But  here's  a  low-down  sneak 
that's  come  in  at  our  back  door  and  run  away  with 
my  girl  for  her  money  I  Don't  you  see  the  difference  ? 

249 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 

What's  this  skunk  like?  "  he  says  to  me  after  a  time. 

"  He  ain't  such  a  bad-looking  fellow,"  says  I,  "  if 
he  was  dressed  up.  He's  a  sort  of  upstanding  fellow. 
His  clothes  was  always  so  dirty  he  didn't  look  like 
much.  He  was  a  good-talking  fellow  enough." 

"  They  all  are  —  the  damn  fortune-hunting  curs ! 
I  can  believe  that." 

"  I  was  too  much  a  coward  to  tell  you,  Colonel," 
says  I.  "  I  love  that  girl  a  awful  lot.  I'd  do  any- 
thing I  could  to  help  the  kid,  even  now  when  she's  in 
so  bad." 

"  Yes,"  says  he. 

"  She  had  it  in  her  natural,"  says  I.  "  Her  pa  and 
ma  run  away.  She  was  plumb  gentle  till  she  bolted  — 
and  then  all  hell  couldn't  hold  her.  Ain't  that  like 
her  pa?" 

"Yes,"  says  he,  humble;  "it's  like  her  pa." 

"And  she's  handsome,  and  soft,  and  kjkid,  and 
gentle  —  so  any  man  couldn't  help  loving  her.  Ain't 
she  like  her  ma  thataway?  Wasn't  she  thataway 
too?" 

"  Yes,"  says  he,  choking  up  like ;  "  she's  like  her 
ma." 

"Well,  then?"  says  I.     "Well  then?" 

So  I  pushed  him  outen  the  room  and  went  on  out 
down  the  walk. 

I  looked  around  at  our  house  as  I  was  going  out. 
250 


HOW  BONNIE  BELL  LEFT  US 

It  was  big  and  fine,  but  somehow  the  curtains  looked 
dull  and  dirty  to  me.  Everything  was  shabby-looking 
some  ways.  This  place  was  where  we'd  failed.  And 
then  I  seemed  to  see  my  own  self  like  I  was  —  Curly, 
a  bow-legged  cowpuncher  offen  the  range,  with  no  use 
for  him  in  the  world  but  just  to  get  things  mixed  up, 
like  I  had.  And  Old  Man  Wright  —  that  used  to  be 
our  sher'f  and  the  captain  of  the  round-up,  and  the 
best  cowman  in  Wyoming  —  what  had  come  to  him 
here  at  this  place? 

I  turned  around  to  look  back.  Just  then  he  come 
out  the  room  where  I'd  pushed  him  in. 

He  was  a  tall  man,  but  now  he  stood  stooped  down 
like.  His  red  mustache  was  ragged  where  he'd 
gnawed  the  ends  for  the  last  half  hour.  His  face 
seemed  different  colors  and  wasn't  red  like  usual.  He 
seemed  to  have  got  leaner  all  at  once.  His  knees  didn't 
seem  to  keep  under  him  good  and  his  back  was  bowed. 
He'd  changed  a  lot  in  less  than  a  hour.  He  seemed 
to  be  thinking  of  what  I  was  thinking  of,  and  he  sort 
of  taken  a  look  around  at  the  house  too. 

"  I  made  it,  Curly,"  says  he,  and  his  voice  was  sort 
of  loose  and  trembling,  like  he  was  old.  "  I  made  it 
for  her.  I  made  a  lot  of  money  for  her.  I  tried  to 
make  her  believe  I  was  happy  here,  but  I  never  was. 
I  ain't  been  happy  here,  not  a  hour  since  we  come. 
It's  all  been  a  mistake." 

251 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


He  hammers  his  fist  on  the  wall  by  the  door  where 
he  stood. 

"  Brick  on  brick,"  says  he,  "  I  built  it  for  her.  I 
pretended  I  liked  all  these  things,  but  I  didn't  care  a 
damn  for  'em.  It's  all  been  a  bluff;  we've  bluffed  to 
each  other  and  we've  all  been  wrong.  It's  been  a  fail- 
ure; all  we  tried  to  do  for  her  has  been  no  good. 
She's  throwed  us  down.  Curly,  I  don't  count  for 
nothing  no  more." 

It  was  true,  all  he'd  said.  We'd  played  our  little 
game  and  lost  it.  I  never  felt  so  bow-legged  in  my 
life,  or  so  red-headed,  as  I  did  when  I  turned  to  walk 
down  from  our  house  to  Wisner's.  I  looked  back 
just  once.  There  was  Old  Man  Wright  standing  in 
the  door,  tall  and  bent  over,  a  hand  against  each  side 
of  the  door  frame. 

I  left  him  there,  holding  onto  the  frame  of  the  front 
door  of  what  he  called  our  home,  that  he'd  worked  so 
hard  for  —  that  we'd  both  tried  so  hard  to  make  her 
happy  in.  He'd  found  one  game  at  last  where  he 
couldn't  win. 

And  she'd  shook  us  now  —  our  girl  —  shook  us  for 
a  man  that  never  had  knocked  at  our  front  door! 


XXV 

ME   AND   THEM 

I  WAS  almost  down  to  our  front  gate,  with  half 
a  notion  to  go  over  and  have  a  talk  with  them 
Wisner  people,  when  I  heard  our  William  call- 
ing to  me ;  he'd  got  out  of  the  room  where  we  locked 
him  up  and  run  around  the  back  of  the  house. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Wilson!  Mr.  Wilson!  "  says  he.  "  Hi 
beg  of  you,  don't!"  says  he;  and  he  come  running 
after  me. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  you?  "  I  ast  him. 

"Hi  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  says  he;  "but  Hi'm 
most  deeply  concerned  in  hall  of  this,"  he  says. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  you  shrimp  ?  "  says  I.  "  Have 
you  been  mixed  up  in  anything  here?  " 

"  Hit  was  the  mide  across  the  way,  sir  —  across  the 
wall,  that  is  to  say.  Well,  perhaps  Hi've  been  too 
attentive  to  their  Hemmy,  sir,  from  the  hupper-story 
window;  but  she  was  that  pretty  and  so  fond  of  me! 
Hi  'ope  Hi  did  no  wrong,  sir;  but  you  see,  sometimes 
when  all  was  quite  still,  sir,  Hi  did  flash  a  light  across 
from  my  window  on  'ers,  and  we  did  'ave  a  'appy 
time,  sir,  come  midnight  —  quite  silent,  sir,  and  quite 

253 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 

far  apart ;  quite  respectable,  Hi  assure  you,  sir  —  noth- 
ing more  —  all  above  the  wall;  for  otherwise  Hi 
couldn't  'ave  seen  'er  at  all." 

"  Was  you  busy  with  that  sort  of  thing  about  one 
or  two  o'clock  this  morning  ?  "  I  ast  him.  "  I  want 
to  know  what  you  done  —  what  happened  ?  " 

"A  great  deal  'appened,  sir.  Quite  without  plan, 
I  saw  a  man  appear  at  the  window  of  this  'ouse  across 
the  wall;  'e  was  right  by  the  window  and  looking 
across.  At  first  Hi  thought  'e  was  looking  at  my  win- 
dow and  Hi  stepped  back,  not  wishing  to  compromise 
a  lady  like  Hemmy  —  that  being  the  'ousemide's  name 
across  the  wall,  sir." 

"What  was  this  man  doing?" 

"  Hi  cawn't  'ardly  tell,  sir.  'E  looked  and  'e  made 
some  motions.  There  seemed  a  light  on  'is  window 
too;  in  fact,  all  between  the  two  'ouses  seemed  quite 
bright  at  the  time,  what  with  'im  and  what  with  me. 
A  short  time  afterwards  a  car  went  out." 

I  turned  on  down  toward  the  gate. 

"  Oh,  Hi  beg  of  you,"  says  he,  "  to  say  nothing  over 
there.  Knowing  as  Hi  do  that  both  you  and  Mr. 
Wright  are  very  violent  men,  and  caring  as  Hi  do 
for  Hemmy,  the  'ousemide,  sir,  Hi  feel  most  uneasy  — 
Hi  do,  indeed." 

"  Well,  if  that's  the  way  you  feel,  William,"  says  I, 
"  you  go  on  back  in  the  house." 

254 


ME  AND  THEM 


"  You  don't  mean  any  violence,  Hi  'ope,  sir?" 

"  I  don't  know  yet  what  I  mean ;  but  go  on  back 
in." 

He  turns  around  just  about  in  time,  for  now  I  seen 
two  or  three  people  coming  in  at  our  front  gate.  I 
didn't  know  any  of  them.  They  was  young  fellows. 
One  of  them  ast  me  if  I  knew  anything  about  the  al- 
leged elopement.  Then  I  seen  word  had  got  out  some- 
how —  like  enough  from  our  Annette  or  their  Emmy, 
and  these  was  maybe  newspaper  reporters  come  up  to 
see  about  it. 

"  I  haven't  heard  of  any  elopement,"  says  I.  "  I 
was  just  calling  our  butler  down  for  flirting  some  with 
one  of  their  hired  girls  over  there." 

"  May  we  talk  to  your  butler?  "  ast  one  of  them. 

"  No ;  you  can't,"  says  I,  "  because  he's  gone  in  to 
see  about  breakfast." 

One  of  the  young  fellows  looked  up  and  sort  of 
scratched  his  head  with  a  lead  pencil. 

"  I  say,"  says  he,  "  are  we  on  a  high  love  story  or 
one  of  the  servants'  quarters  ?  Tell  us,  friend  " —  he 
says  to  me  — "  can't  you  help  us  out  on  this  ?  " 

"  It  ain't  in  my  line  of  business,"  says  I ;  "  but  it 
seems  plain,  if  their  hired  man  has  run  away  with 
our  maid,  or  our  butler  run  away  with  theirs,  it  ain't 
story  enough  to  bother  a  alderman  or  his  foreman 
about  before  breakfast." 

255 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


"  Well,  lemme  get  a  picture  of  the  wall,  anyways," 
says  he;  and  he  done  that  before  I  could  help  it. 

"  Have  you  got  one  of  your  butler?  "  he  ast. 

"  No,  we  ain't ;  and  you  can't  get  none.  We  don't 
bother  about  the  lower  classes,"  says  I. 

So  they  laughed  and  bimeby  went  on  away.  I  give 
them  some  cigarettes  —  all  I  had ;  and  they  said  I  was 
a  good  scout,  like  enough. 

Well,  of  all  the  papers  that  tried  to  get  a  story  that 
morning,  not  one  printed  a  word  except  one.  It  come 
out  with  about  a  colyum  in  the  paper  all  about  a  mys- 
terious disappearance  in  Millionaire  Row.  It  allowed 
that  nobody  could  tell  who  had  disappeared,  but  some 
said  that  Old  Man  Wisner  had  run  off  with  one  of 
Alderman  Wright's  hired  girls,  and  others  said  that 
Old  Man  Wright  had  eloped  with  Mrs.  Wisner,  while 
others  declared  that  the  Wrights'  butler  had  eloped 
with  the  second-floor  maid  of  the  Wisner  household; 
though  still  others  insisted  the  Wisner  gardener  had 
disappeared  with  the  heiress  of  Alderman  Wright,  the 
well-known  citizen  whose  re-election  at  the  coming 
term  was  practically  assured. 

That  paper  printed  some  pictures  too — one  of  Old 
Man  Wisner  and  one  of  Bonnie  Bell,  allowing  that  he 
was  our  butler  and  the  one  of  Bonnie  Bell  was  the 
picture  of  the  second-floor  maid  of  the  Wisner  house- 
hold. I  reckon  they  had  them  pictures  already  in 

256 


ME  AND  THEM 


their  newspaper  office.  But  they  printed  a  new  picture 
of  the  Wisner  wall  and  said  some  more  funny  things 
about  that,  like  they  had  before. 

This  wasn't  no  funny  time  for  us.  The  next  day 
there  was  a  big  fire  or  something,  and  all  those  people 
got  to  writing  about  something  else;  and  they  let  us 
alone. 

After  they'd  gone  away  that  morning  Old  Man 
Wright  ast  me  if  I'd  learned  anything.  Then  I  told 
him  about  how  William  had  made  signs  that  morning 
across  the  wall  to  people  in  that  house. 

"  Now  it  seems  to  me  like  this,  Colonel,"  says  I : 
"  I  never  went  to  sleep  that  night,  and  neither  did 
Bonnie  Bell.  When  she  seen  them  lights  on  the  win- 
dows, maybe  she  went  to  her  own  window.  He  was 
maybe  standing  there  and  seen  her.  Maybe  she  seen 
him.  Maybe  all  at  once  it  come  over  her  that  she'd 

have  to  —  she'd  have  to Well,  you  know  what 

I  mean." 

He  nodded  then. 

"  You  see,  it  must  of  come  over  the  pore  girl  all 
at  once,"  says  I;  for,  to  save  my  life,  I  couldn't  help 
trying  to  excuse  her  every  way  I  could.  "  She  hadn't 
sent  no  word  over  to  him  and  he  hadn't  got  no  word 
to  her  for  weeks  so  far  as  I  knew.  It  must  of  all 
come  to  them  both  just  in  that  one  minute.  It  was 
like  cap  and  powder  —  you  can't  help  the  explosion 

257 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


then.     I     reckon     maybe     she's     somewhere  —  with 
him." 

"Yes;  with  him!"  breaks  out  Old  Man  Wright. 
"  It  was  neck  against  neck  —  me  and  Wisner.  I  had 
him  beat;  I'd  of  had  him  on  his  knees.  And  now 
he's  put  the  greatest  disgrace  on  us  any  man  could 
of  figured  out,  no  matter  how  hard  he  tried  —  his 
hired  man  has  run  away  with  my  daughter!  I 
could  of  laughed  at  Wisner  once.  Can  I  laugh  at 
him  now  ?  " 

"  That  ain't  the  worst,"  says  I. 

"  No,"  says  he ;  "  it  ain't  the  worst.  The  worst  is, 
she's  married  a  low-down  cur  that's  been  after  her 
money  all  this  time.  All  this  time,  Curly  —  and  I 
didn't  know  it.  And  you  let  him  go  thataway  — 
right  here;  you  heard  the  wheels  that  took  'em 
away! " 

"  Yes,  Colonel,"  says  I ;  "  that's  true.  Now  it's  a 
little  late,  but  I'm  going  to  get  on  this  job  the  best 
I  know  how  from  this  time  down.  That  means  I've 
got  to  go  away  from  town  for  a  little  while,  Colonel. 
I  want  you  to  set  here  and  leave  this  thing  to  me. 
Please  don't  say  '  No '  to  that.  I  may  need  you  after 
a  while  —  in  case  I  locate  them.  Since  the  news- 
papers has  got  fooled  by  this  thing  we  pulled  off  this 
morning,  maybe  the  best  thing  I  can  do  is  to  go  away 
while  things  is  quiet. 

258 


ME  AND  THEM 


"  Stay  here,  then,  Colonel,"  says  I.  "  Don't  drink 
no  more  and  no  less  than  you  been  doing.  If  any- 
body comes  tell  them  Bonnie  Bell  is  sick.  Wait  till 
you  hear  from  me." 


XXVI 

HOW   I   WENT   BACK 

1  ARGUED  that  when  you  look  for  a  man  who 
has  done  a  crime  you  got  to  figure  on  what  he 
said  and  done  last,  so  as  to  get  a  line  on  what 
he's  going  to  do  next ;  and  when  I  come  to  study  over 
that  hired  man  had  mostly  said  to  me  I  remembered 
it  was  about  Wyoming  and  ropes  and  cows  —  things 
like  that.  I  knowed  he  was  batty,  like  so  many  people 
is,  about  Western  things  —  not  that  Western  men  is 
any  different  from  anybody  else,  though  a  lot  of  people 
think  they  are. 

Now  I  figured  that  the  place  he'd  make  a  break 
to  was,  like  enough,  the  range.  He'd  told  me  he 
knowed  the  Circle  Arrow,  too,  his  boss  being  a  whole 
lot  interested  in  the  Circle  Arrow. 

I  put  one  thing  together  with  another;  and,  with- 
out saying  anything  to  Old  Man  Wright  about  it,  I 
bought  a  ticket  for  the  Yellow  Bull  country  and  pulled 
out  for  the're  as  fast  as  I  could  go. 

It  was  a  good  bet.  When  I  got  to  the  station  for 
our  old  ranch,  below  Cody,  forty  miles  from  where 
our  ranch  was  when  we  lived  there,  there  wasn't  very 

260 


HOW  I  WENT  BACK 


many  people  around  the  station  that  I  knew.  A  good 
many  new  men  was  there,  with  wide  hats,  and  leg- 
gings on  their  legs,  and  breeches  that  buttons  on  the 
side  —  folks  that  had  come  out  West  to  be  right  West- 
ern. Most  of  'em  come  out  to  raise  bananas  on  the 
Yellow  Bull  and  be  gentlemen  farmers,  I  reckon. 

I  looks  around  among  these  people  for  a  good  while. 
None  of  them  paid  much  attention  to  me.  At  last  I 
seen  him.  Yes ;  it  was  that  hired  man.  He  was  get- 
ting ready  to  drive  out  of  town  with  a  pair  of  mules 
hitched  to  a  buckboard.  He  was  fixing  in  some  boxes 
and  things.  I  knowed  him  in  a  minute. 

But  where  was  she?  I  waited  to  see  if  Bonnie  Bell 
would  come  out  anywhere;  but  she  didn't. 

I  walked  over  to  him ;  and  he  seen  me  standing  there 
looking  at  him  just  as  he  was  going  to  pull  out.  I 
went  on  over  and  got  onto  the  seat  with  him. 

"  Drive  right  on  straight  ouit  of  town,"  says  I, 
quiet.  "Don't  say  anything.  Just  act  like  nothing 
had  happened,"  says  I. 

Under  my  coat  I  pushed  the  muzzle  of  my  gun  into 
his  ribs.  He  looked  straight  ahead  and  done  what 
I  told  him  to.  If  he  was  scared  bad  he  didn't  let 
on. 

"  I  haven't  got  any  gun,"  says  he  after  a  while. 
"  I  don't  pack  one." 

"  I  haven't  packed  one  for  years  myself,"  says  I. 
261 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


"  Sometimes  a  man  has  to  pack  one  for  coyotes  and 
such  things,"  says  I. 

He  got  kind  of  red  in  his  face,  but  he  didn't  say 
anything. 

"  I'm  just  that  kind  of  a  man  —  when  it  comes  to 
a  show-down  I  don't  care  what  happens,"  says  I. 
"  And  I  reckon  you  see  it's  a  show-down  now.  Tell 
me  where  she  is." 

"  She's  out  at  our  place,"  says  he ;  "  forty  miles 
or  so  —  you  know  where  it  is.  I've  got  the  Arrow 
Head  Spring  homestead;  I  bought  it  a  while  ago. 
I've  got  a  few  cows  —  not  many.  You  see,"  says  he, 
"  I've  saved  a  little  money  —  not  a  whole  lot.  Our 
property  isn't  paid  for  yet.  We've  got  a  quarter  sec- 
tion, but  you  know  the  range  is  in  back  of  it.  We 
think  we  can  make  some  sort  of  a  start." 

"  With  her  ?  Her  that  was  used  to  so  much  ?  " 
says  I.  "  Are  you  married  ?  But,  of  course,  that 
was  what  you  was  after  —  her  money,  not  her." 

He  flushed  plumb  red  then,  and  sort  of  swallowed 
several  times. 

"  You  think  high  of  me  and  her,  don't  you,  Curly?  " 
says  he. 

I  seen  that,  after  all,  I  was  too  late;  and  my  gun 
dropped  down  into  the  bottom  of  the  buckboard,  and 
neither  of  us  noticed  it. 

"  You  married  her  —  our  girl,"  says  I,  "  that  we'd 
262 


HOW  I  WENT  BACK 


tried  so  hard  to  get  a  place  for  ?  She  could  of  owned 
the  whole  ranch  —  and  you  give  her  forty  acres,  part 
paid  for !  That's  fine  —  for  the  girl  we  loved  so 
much!" 

"  You  don't  love  her  no  more  than  I  do,"  says  he. 
"  You  never  tried  harder  for  her  than  I'll  try  for  her. 
Love  —  why,  what  do  you  know  about  it?  If  she 
hadn't  loved  me  do  you  think  she'd  of  done  what  she 
done  and  run  away  with  me?  Do  you  think  she'd  of 
broke  her  father's  heart  and  forgot  all  that  had  been 
done  for  her  if  it  hadn't  been  for  love?  If  it  hadn't 
been  for  thinking  of  those  things  we'd  be  the  happiest 
two  young  fools  in  all  the  world.  We  are  now !  She's 
some  happy  anyway.  But  it  breaks  my  own  heart  to 
think  she  isn't  any  happier." 

After  a  while  he  goes  on: 

"What  could  I  do,  Curly?  It's  a  awful  thing  to 
love  a  woman  this  way;  it's  a  terrible  thing.  There's 
no  sense  nor  reason  about  it  at  all,"  says  he.  "  But 
now  if  I  only  could  have  had  any  decent  chance " 

"  Pick  up  your  gun,"  says  he  after  a  while ;  "  it 
might  fall  out." 

We  rode  on  for  quite  a  while.  He  made  like  he 
was  going  to  reach  into  his  pocket  for  something  and 
I  covered  him  quick,  but  he  only  hauled  out  a  piece 
of  Arrow  Head  plug.  He  offered  me  a  chaw,  absent- 
minded. 

263 


"No,"  says  I;  "I  can't  take  no  chaw  of  tobacco 
with  such  as  you." 

He  put  it  back  in  his  pocket,  then,  and  didn't  take 
none  his  own  self.  His  face  was  right  red  and 
troubled  now. 

"  Curly,"  says  he,  "  what  am  I  going  to  do?  What's 
right  to  do?  I  hadn't  much  to  give  up,  but  such  as 
it  was  I  give  it  up  gladly  for  her;  I'd  give  up  every- 
thing in  the  world  —  if  I  had  everything  —  for  her. 
That's  what  she  means  to  me,"  says  he.  "  We  are 
so  much  to  one  another  that  I  haven't  any  time  to  be 
scared  of  you.  We  haven't  got  around  to  that  yet  — 
not  that  I'm  so  cheap  as  to  believe  you're  bluffing; 
I  know  you're  not." 

"  No,  I  ain't,"  says  I.  "  This  thing  has  got  to  be 
squared  and  I  come  out  here  to  square  it.  I  know 
your  record  —  I've  heard  you  talk  to  more'n  one 
woman.  You've  got  a  cast  iron  nerve,"  says  I ;  "  but 
it  won't  do  you  no  good.  Drive  right  on  now  till  I 
tell  you  to  stop." 

"  If  you  want  to  kill  her  too,"  says  he,  "  all  right  — 
then  shoot  me  down.  Ride  on  out  then  and  explain 
to  her  what  you've  done.  Look  at  her  face  the  wajr 
it  will  be  then.  Maybe  you  can  tell  then  whether  she 
cares  anything  for  me  or  not.  Do  you  want  to  see 
a  woman's  face  looking  thataway  —  see  it  all  your 
life?  And  do  you  think  you  can  square  things  or 

264 


HOW  I  WENT  BACK 


end  things  by  killing  me  or  her,  or  both  of  us?  Maybe 
you'd  murder  more  —  who  knows  ?  We're  man  and 
wife.  Would  that  square  things,  Curly?  I  don't 
know  much  myself,  but  I  don't  seem  to  think  it  would." 

It  was  curious,  but  it  seemed  like  it  was  true  —  he 
didn't  seem  to  have  got  around  to  thinking  of  whether 
he  was  in  danger  or  not.  And  I  knowed  he  wasn't 
running  any  cheap  bluff,  neither,  any  more  than  me. 
He  looked  right  on  ahead  and  didn't  pay  no  attention 
to  my  gun. 

"  Curly,"  says  he,  "  you  didn't  make  this  and  you 
can't  end  it.  This  is  a  case  of  man  and  woman,  the 
way  God  made  them.  '  Male  and  female  made  He 
them.'  If  I  died  today  —  if  she  did  too  —  I'd  thank 
God  that  we  had  gone  this  far  anyways  together. 

"  Why,"  says  he,  going  on  like  he  was  half  talking 
to  hisself,  "  I  didn't  believe  in  anything  much  —  I  was 
a  atheist  and  a  socialist  —  till  I  saw  her.  I  couldn't 
see  anything  much  worth  while  in  the  world  —  till  I 
saw  her.  I  didn't  want  to  do  or  be  anything  much  — 
till  I  saw  her.  And  now,  I  see  it  all  —  everything! 
I  see  how  much  worth  while  the  world  is,  and  how 
much  worth  while  she  is  and  I  am,  and  how  much 
worth  while  other  people  are  too.  I  just  didn't  know 
it  before  —  till  I  saw  her.  Then  I  knew  what  life 
was  all  about.  Do  you  think  you  can  settle  this  now, 
or  help  it,  Curly  ?  No ;  it's  too  late." 

265 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


We  drove  on  quite  a  little  way  yet. 

"  Curly,"  says  he  at  last,  "  I've  made  my  talk.  If 
any  man  says  I  married  Bonnie  Bell  for  anything  but 
love  — the  best  and  cleanest  of  love  —  he's  making 
the  crudest  mistake  in  the  world;  and  he's  a  damned 
liar  too.  You  ask  her,  Curly." 

"  What's  that?  "  says  I.  "  Me  ask  her?  I  didn't 
come  for  that.  I  couldn't  look  at  her.  That  girl 
can  get  my  goat  any  station.  I  don't  want  to  talk  to 
her." 

"  But  you  wouldn't  of  lynched  a  cow  thief  on  the 
range  in  the  old  days  on  such  a  showing  as  this." 

"  Thief  ?  "  says  I  to  him.  "  She  said  she  was  a 
thief  —  she'd  stole  the  life  and  happiness  of  her  pa 
and  others " 

"  That's  true,"  says  he  quiet  like.  "  When  you 
think  of  it,  all  life  is  only  a  theft  every  way.  Each 
human  being  steals  from  all  others.  That's  the  way 
the  world  goes  on.  The  coming  generation  steals  al- 
ways from  the  one  that  has  gone  by.  Tell  me,  is 
that  wrong?  And  tell  me,  can  you  and  I  judge  if 
it  is?" 

I  set  and  thought  for  quite  a  while,  trying  to  figure 
out  things.  I  couldn't.  At  last  I  reached  up  and 
threw  my  gun  away  into  the  sage. 


XXVII 


I  WENT  back  to  the  railroad  station  as  soon  as  a 
wagon  come  along  that  would  give  me  a  ride, 
about  half  a  hour  after  I  left  the  hired  man  in 
the  buckboard.  Then  I  went  on  up  to  Cody.  When 
I  got  there  I  done  what  anybody  who  knows  cow- 
punchers  knows  I'd  do  in  them  circumstances.  I  cer- 
tainly did  run  true  to  form. 

First,  I  went  to  the  telegraph  office  and  sent  a  tele- 
gram to  Old  Man  Wright :  "  Don't  do  nothing  till 
you  hear  from  me."  Next,  I  showed  I  was  a  good 
business  man  by  going  and  buying  a  railroad  ticket 
back  to  Chicago;  and  I  left  it  and  ten  dollars  with  the 
clerk  at  the  hotel. 

It  might  of  been  seven  or  eight  days  I  was  busy 
celebrating  my  losing  my  job  like  a  cowpuncher  almost 
always  does.  Having  so  much  money  it  took  me  quite 
a  while  to  finish  decorating  Cody  the  way  I  liked  it 
best.  Still,  after  a  while,  being  down  to  ten  dollars 
and  the  railroad  ticket,  I  concluded  to  go  back 
home. 

When  I  got  back  to  Chicago  I  found  Old  Man 
267 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 

Wright  setting  right  where  I'd  left  him  and  he  looked 
like  he  really  hadn't  done  nothing  since.  His  hair 
was  right  long  and  his  face  was  full  of  whiskers. 

"  Well,  I  found  'em,"  says  I. 

"  What  did  you  do,  Curly  ?  "  says  he. 

"  I  didn't  shoot  him  none,"  says  I.  "  So  to  speak, 
he  taken  my  gun  away  from  me." 

"Huh!     Where  is  she?     How  is  she?" 

I  had  to  tell  him  I  didn't  bring  no  word  from  Bon- 
nie Bell  at  all,  and  hadn't  seen  her  even. 

"  I  couldn't  stand  it,  Colonel,"  says  I.  "  He  made 
a  awful  strong  talk  to  me,  Colonel,"  says  I. 

He  didn't  say  nothing  for  a  long  time.  He  begin 
to  talk  right  slow  then. 

"  I  thought  I  had  one  friend  in  the  world,"  says  he, 
"  one  man  I  could  rest  on.  But  even  you've  gone 
back  on  me  —  even  you  failed  me,  Curly." 

"  Yes,  Colonel,"  says  I.  "  I've  done  a  heap  worse 
than  that.  I  know  how  you  feel  and  I  feel  the  same 
way.  I  ain't  fitten  to  be  your  foreman.  You  only 
brought  me  on  here  because  you  was  so  damn  soft- 
hearted you  couldn't  fire  me.  You  didn't  use  no  judg- 
ment or  you'd  of  fired  me  then,  and  a  hundred  times 
since  then.  All  this  whole  mix-up  was  because  I  didn't 
have  no  brains  —  I  couldn't  see  a  load  of  hay;  yet  it 
was  me  that  was  doing  all  the  seeing  —  you  never 
took  no  hand  in  it  at  all.  Shore,  I  fell  down!  You 

268 


HOW  I  QUIT  OLD  MAN  WRIGHT 

ain't  firing  me  right  now;  I  fire  myself.  I've  come 
back  to  say  that  to  you,  Colonel.  I  taken  about  a  week 
in  Cody  to  think  it  all  over  —  with  help." 

He  only  set  and  looked  at  me,  and  I  had  a  hard 
time  trying  to  talk.  I  told  him  where  them  two  was 
living. 

Then  all  at  once  the  whole  picture  of  the  old  days, 
when  him  and  me  was  young,  seemed  to  come  up  be- 
fore him.  He  flared  up  like  only  part  of  him  had 
been  afire  inside.  He  got  up  and  walked  up  and 
down,  with  his  hands  clinched  tight. 

"  Damn  you  all ! "  says  he,  and  his  eyes  was  like 
coals  now.  "What  have  I  done  to  any  of  you? 
What  have  I  done  wrong  to  anybody  that  I  should 
deserve  this?  Can't  you  remember  when  you  was  a 
man,  Curly?  Can't  you  remember  when  you  and  me 
set  on  the  gate  of  the  big  pasture,  with  our  rifles  acrost 
our  knees,  and  waited  for  them  sheepmen  to  come  up 
and  try  to  get  them  sheep  through  us?  Did  they  get 
through?  No;  no  one  had  us  buffaloed.  That  was 
when  you  and  me  was  men,  Curly. 

"  What  have  we  done  now  ?  We  let  this  damn 
hypocrite,  Dave  Wisner,  get  the  best  of  us  all  the  way 
down  the  line.  He's  married  his  hired  man  to  my 
girl;  and  he's  set  up  that  hired  man  out  on  the  old 
home  ranch,  where  her  ma  and  me  made  our  first 
start.  Could  anything  be  harder  for  me  to  bear  than 

269 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


that?  You  was  on  the  gate,  Curly;  and  you  let  'em 
through." 

"  He  said  they  was  plumb  happy  —  them  two, 
Colonel,"  says  I.  "  What  in  hell  could  I  do,  Colonel? 
It  all  come  over  me.  I  could  see  the  sun  shining;  I 
could  feel  the  wind  blowing  again,  like  it  was  in  the 
old  days." 

"  Happy!  "  says  he.  He  was  half  whispering  now 
and  his  voice  was  like  that  of  a  right  old  man. 
"  Happy !  So  was  I  —  so  was  her  ma  —  out  there  in 
the  old  log  house,  with  the  mountains,  and  the  sun 
shining,  and  the  wind  blowing.  Curly,"  says  he, 
"what  made  her  throw  her  life  away?  What  made 
us  come  here  at  all  ?  " 

"  I  wish  you'd  stake  me  to  some  ham  and  aigs, 
Colonel,"  says  I,  "  before  I  go.  I  met  a  fellow  a  while 
back  that  was  broke;  so  I  haven't  et  much." 

"  Go  eat,  man,"  says  he.  "  And  don't  talk  to  me 
about  going  away." 

"What's  that?"  says  I. 

"  You're  a  damn,  worthless,  trifling  cowhand  and 
you'll  never  be  anything  different.  I  ought  to  fire 
you  —  ought  to  of  done  it  long  ago;  but  I  fire  my 
own  men  —  they  don't  fire  theirselfs.  Go  eat." 

"  Can't  you  eat  none  now,  too,  Colonel  ?  "  I  ast  him. 

"  Not  yet,"  says  he.     "  Maybe  after  a  while." 

I  went  out  and  got  the  first  square  meal  I'd  had  for 
270 


HOW  I  QUIT  OLD  MAN  WRIGHT 

two  days.  When  I  couldn't  eat  no  more  right  then, 
I  sort  of  taken  a  pasear  around  the  house,  which  was 
looking  like  hell  by  now.  When  I  come  back  I  seen 
a  electric  brougham  out  at  our  front  yard.  Tom  Kim- 
berly  was  just  coming  in.  Out  in  the  brougham  I 
seen  two  girls.  One  was  Katherine  and  the  other 
seemed  like  it  was  Sally  Henderson. 

"  I  sha'n't  try  to  say  anything,  Mr.  Wright,"  says 
Tom  Kimberly  after  a  while  to  the  old  man — "only, 
whatever  Bonnie  Bell's  done,  she's  done  because  she's 
thought  it  was  best.  She's  tried  to  do  what  was  honest 
and  fair.  If  she  didn't  love  me  it  wouldn't  have  been 
fair  to  marry  me.  She  never  said  she'd  marry  me; 
she  said  she'd  tell  me  sometime.  It  was  her  right  to 
decide  for  herself.  I  wish  her  well,  hard  as  that  is 
for  me  to  say." 

"  Yes ;  I  know,"  says  the  old  man.  "  She  was  a 
fine  girl,  Tom.  But  she  ain't  the  only  one  in  the 
world  at  tha^;  and  she  had  freckles,  some  —  they  get 
worse  when  they  get  old.  There's  plenty  girls  in  the 
world  handsomer'n  her  —  always  is  plenty.  If  I 
hadn't  happened  to  marry  her  ma,  Tom,  I'd  of  mar- 
ried any  other  of  half  a  dozen  more  girls,  like,  just  as 
they  come  along.  They're  all  alike,  anyways,  you 
see;  so  don't  take  it  hard." 

He  was  a  damn  old  liar!  He  never  would  of  mar- 
ried no  other  woman  in  the  world  but  the  one  he  did 

271 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


marry,  and  he  knew  it;  but  he  was  trying  to  make 
Tom  feel  more  comfortable.  So  Tom  he  set  there 
and  lit  a  cigarette.  His  trousers  was  right  short,  and 
when  he  hitched  'em  up  I  seen  he  wore  garters  —  blue 
ones.  I  was  reconciled  then. 

After  a  time  he  got  up  and  said  good-by  to  us.  Then 
he  went  out  to  where  the  brougham  was  standing  in 
the  street.  One  of  the  girls  inside  opened  the  door  for 
him  to  get  in  —  maybe  Sally  Henderson. 


XXVIII 

THE   HOLE   IN   THE   WALL 

A  PAPER  come  out,  with  a  picture  of  the 
Wisner  fence,  showing  the  place  where  the 
hole  had  been  broke  through.  It  was 
marked  with  a  star  to  show  where  it  was  at.  The 
man  that  wrote  the  story  said  here  was  a  modern  case 
of  Pyramus  and  Thisbe.  Who  they  was  I  don't  know ; 
but  like  enough  they  lived  on  the  South  Side.  There 
was  pictures  this  time  of  our  William  and  their  Emmy. 
I  didn't  read  any  more  about  the  thing,  for  I  was  sore 
on  the  whole  business,  and  considerable  worried  about 
Old  Man  Wright,  what  he  was  going  to  do.  But  at 
part  of  the  piece  it  said  something  I  happened  to  see. 

Evidently  [it  says]  though  it  may  be  difficult  for  a 
young  man  to  kiss  a  girl  through  a  four-foot  wall,  this  aper- 
ture, opening  or  orifice,  without  doubt  or  question  originally 
was  intended  as  an  avenue  for  Mr.  Pyramus  to  achieve  access 
occasionally,  if  not  to  the  lips,  at  least  to  the  ears  of  little 
Miss  Thisbe.  Which  leaves  it  only  a  question  of  who 
was  Mr.  Pyramus  and  who  Miss  Thisbe.  As  to  this, 
Alderman  Wright  has  steadily  denied  himself  to  the  press, 
while  Mrs.  Wisner,  the  only  member  of  the  family  at  home 
on  the  north  side  of  the  wall,  also  refuses  to  talk.  It  is  well 

273 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


known  that  Mr.  Wisner  has  been  absent  in  Europe  on  im- 
portant business  connected  with  the  war  loan  — 

I  read  that  far  to  Old  Man  Wright  and  then  he 
broke  out. 

"  War  loan !  "  says  he.  "  It's  a  loan  for  his  own 
self  that  he's  looking  for.  He's  lost  four  million  dol- 
lars on  that  irrigation  scheme  of  his  when  he  bought 
our  ranch.  Now  I'm  going  to  foreclose  and  he  knows 
it.  He's  got  his  funds  tied  up  in  cargoes  of  meat  and 
grain  that  ain't  cashed  in.  He's  short,  and  damn 
short!  And  I  know  it;  and  these  are  times  when 
banks  ain't  loosening  much.  War  —  yes;  I'll  show 
him  war!  There  can't  nobody  get  title  to  a  foot  of 
that  land  till  Old  Man  Wisner  gets  his  title  from  me  — 
and  he  ain't  never  going  to  get  it.  If  it's  my  last  act 
I'll  ruin  him.  I  trusted  you,  and  you  turned  me  down. 
I  trusted  her,  and  she  threw  me  down.  I  won't  trust 
nobody  no  more,  except  myself. 

"What's  it  come  to?"  says  he  to  hisself  after  a 
while,  looking  around  at  the  big  rooms.  "  What  did 
it  all  come  to,  what  I  done  for  her?  And  I  give  up 
the  ranch  for  her  and  give  up  the  life  I  loved! " 

"  The  sun  was  on  the  hills  when  I  was  out  there, 
Colonel,"  says  I  to  him,  sudden,  happening  to  think 
of  something,  "  and  the  sky  was  blue  as  it  ever  was ; 
and  the  wind  was  just  carrying  the  smell  of  the  sage, 
like  it  used  to;  and  the  river  was  running  white  on 

274 


THE  HOLE  IN  THE  WALL 

the  riffles,  same  as  it  did  before.     And  the  cows " 

"  Don't,  Curly !  "  says  he.     "  Don't !  " 

"  I  won't  no  more,  Colonel,"  says  I.  "  I  won't  be 
on  your  pay  roll  much  longer ;  but  them  old  days " 

"  Don't !  "  says  he.  "  I  can't  think  about  the  old 
days  no  more.  I'm  closing  the  books  now,  Curly." 

"  So'm  I,"  says  I. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  says  he.  "  I  ain't  right 
clear  about  some  things." 

"  No ;  you  ain't,"  says  I.  "  So  long  as  it's  fair  war 
I'm  in  with  you;  but  when  it  conies  to  making  war 
on  women  and  children  —  I  ain't  in." 

"  Children!     Curly,  what  do  you  mean?  " 

"  Children,"  says  I,  "  is  all  there  is  to  things.  Buck 
the  game  the  way  you  want  to,  Colonel,"  says  I ;  "  but 
when  you  buck  the  child  game  you're  bucking  God 
Almighty  His  own  self.  He's  got  it  framed  up  so 
He  can't  lose.  Them  two  couldn't  help  theirselfs. 
I've  got  to  finish  some  day,  same  as  you.  All  right; 
I'll  finish  with  them." 

Then  I  shocked  hands  with  him  and  he  done  so  with 
me.  He  looks  me  keen  in  the  eyes  and  I  looks  him 
keen  back.  We  didn't  neither  of  us  weaken.  This 
was  a  heap  the  hardest  thing  we'd  ever  faced  together, 
but  we  didn't  neither  of  us  flicker.  We'd  both  de- 
cided what  we  thought  was  right. 

"  Son,"  says  he  after  a  while,  "  you're  some  man 
275 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


after  all."  And  he  puts  his  hand  on  my  shoulder 
like  he  used  to. 

"  She  ain't  got  no  ma,"  says  I  to  him  the  last  thing. 
"  I'm  half  her  pa,  the  only  half  she's  got  left;  and  I'll 
stick  if  her  father  don't.  But  she  ain't  got  no  ma. 
That's  what  makes  me  so  sorry  for  the  kid,"  says  I. 

He  looks  at  me,  with  his  eyes  wide  open,  but  he 
don't  talk  none. 

"  I  seen  her  setting  right  there,  Colonel,"  says  I, 
"  in  this  room,  on  our  old  hide  lounge  —  her  wring- 
ing her  hands  like  she'd  tear  'em  apart.  She  was 
bucking  a  hard  game  then,  and  doing  her  best  to 
play  it  fair  —  her  just  a  kid,  with  no  special  chance 
to  be  so  very  wise,  and  not  having  no  ma.  She  didn't 
have  a  soul  to  go  to,  and  all  that  was  worrying  her 
was  which  side  of  the  game  she  really  was  on.  For 
she  knowed,  even  if  we  didn't,  like  I  told  you  just  now 
» —  she  must  of  knowed  it  somehow  —  there's  one  par- 
ticular game  that  God  Almighty  plays  so  He  can't 
lose." 

He  groaned  like  I  hated  to  hear.  But  he  didn't 
weaken.  I  knowed  he  couldn't  quit. 


XXIX 

HOW   THE   GAME   BROKE 

TODAY  was  the  day  Old  Man  Wisner  was  to 
get  home;  and  that  evening  me  and  Old 
Man  Wright  laid  out  to  go  over  there  and 
have  a  talk  with  him.  So  a  lot  of  things  had  to  be 
done  that  day. 

Old  Man  Wright  he  got  up  at  sunup,  and  almost  all 
day  he  was  busy  in  the  room  he  used  for  a  office  at 
the  house;  he  hadn't  hardly  went  downtown  at  all 
since  Bonnie  Bell  run  away.  He  had  a  desk  full  of 
papers  here,  and  now  he  sent  for  his  lawyer  and  his 
barber  to  come  over  early  in  the  day. 

"  Why,  Alderman,"  says  the  lawyer  man,  "  you  act 
like  you  was  making  your  last  will  and  testament,  and 
getting  ready  to  close  up  business. 

He  laughs  then;  but  Old  Man  Wright  don't  laugh. 

"I  am,"  says  he.  "It's  time;  I've  been  dead 
more'n  a  week  now." 

They  made  out  some  papers  about  houses  and  lots 
and  stocks  and  things,  how  they  was  to  be  distributed 
in  case  of  the  deemise  of  the  said  John  William 
Wright.  Then  after  a  while  they  come  around  to  the 

277 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


papers  in  the  big  case  we  had  against  Old  Man  Wis- 
ner  for  the  last  deferred  payment  on  the  Circle  Ar- 
row trade  that  hadn't  been  paid  yet  and  wouldn't  be. 
Old  Man  Wright  sets  back  and  looks  at  them  papers 
right  ca'm. 

"  I  know  what  Old  Man  Wisner's  been  East  for," 
says  he.  "  He  couldn't  raise  that  much  money  — 
nigh  on  a  million  dollars  —  on  anything  as  wildcat  as 
strawberries  and  cream  in  Wyoming;  not  these  times. 
Even  the  banks  is  wise  onto  that  now.  Stenogra- 
phers and  clerks  and  ministers  and  doctors  don't  bite 
like  they  used  to  no  more;  it's  harder  to  find  people 
that's  willing  to  pay  in  so  much  a  month  for  a  bunga- 
low in  Florida  or  Wyoming  while  they  set  home  en- 
gaged in  light  and  genteel  employment.  Every  oncet 
in  a  while  the  American  people  gets  took  with  a  spasum 
of  a  little  horse  sense.  There's  places  for  peaches  and 
cream,  and  there's  places  for  cows,  but  you  don't  want 
to  get  your  wires  crossed. 

"  So,"  says  he,  "  I  know  I've  got  Old  Man  Wisner 
broke  right  now.  He's  been  over  to  Holland  to  see 
if  he  couldn't  form  a  Dutch  syndicate  for  to  un- 
load on.  The  Dutch  is  the  last  resort  of  the 
American  landboomer.  When  you  can't  sell  out  a 
bunch  of  greasewood  land  for  a  pineapple  colony  to 
no  one  else,  go  over  and  sell  it  to  them  Dutch ;  they're 
easy.  I  seen  a  man  one  time  sell  almost  all  the  north 

278 


HOW  THE  GAME  BROKE 

end  of  New  Mexico  to  a  Dutch  syndicate  for  a  coffee 
plantation.  It  was  good  for  cows;  but  he  had  pic- 
tures of  steamboats  and  canals  and  things  out  there 
in  the  sagebrush  —  you've  got  to  have  a  canal  on  your 
blueprint  if  you  sell  anything  to  them  Holland  people. 
Like  enough  Old  Man  Wisner  had  pictures  of  canals. 
But  he  couldn't  sell  this  property  none,  following  on 
the  war  over  there ;  they're  busy  with  other  things. 

"  The  result  is  he's  come  back  here  broke.  He 
knows  the  banks  has  got  wise  and  they  ain't  going  to 
back  him  no  further  than  they  have.  They're  too 
busy  lending  a  billion  dollars  or  so  to  the  folks  over 
in  Europe  to  help  blow  up  some  steamboats  for  us. 

"  Therefore,"  says  he,  jarring  the  paper  weight  on 
the  table  when  he  brings  down  his  fist,  "  if  times  gets 
any  harder,  as  like  enough  they  will,  Dave  Wisner's 
got  to  let  that  property  go  on  the  market  for  what 
it'll  bring  inside  his  one  year  of  grace  after  fore- 
closure. I  know  what  that  means;  it'll  mean  I  got  a 
few  thousand  acres  of  land  more  to  distribute  among 
my  heirs  and  assigns,  my  executors,  friends,  faithful 
servitors,  villagers  and  others  —  however  you  got  that 
figured  out  in  them  papers. 

"  Let  me  see  them  papers,"  says  he  after  a  while. 
"  Are  you  shore  you  got  my  girl's  name  spelled  Kath- 
erine?  And  that  she  gets  this  city  residence 
here?" 

279 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


Then  they  went  over  it  again.  But  after  a  while 
the  lawyer  got  done,  and  so  did  the  barber,  and  they 
both  went  away;  and  the  old  man  turns  to  me. 

"  Curly,"  says  he,  "  I'm  rich.  I'm  awful  rich.  I 
didn't  know  how  rich  I  was  till  I  begun  to  figure  it  up 
with  Fanstead,  Maclay  &  Horn,  my  lawyers  here.  I 
reckon,  taking  fair  values,  I'm  worth  ten  or  twelve 
million  dollars  —  maybe  twenty  or  forty  —  most  of 
it  made  in  this  here  town  in  a  couple  of  years  or  so, 
and  all  out  of  the  Wisner  money  we  got  for  the  ranch, 
which  we're  going  to  get  back  pretty  nigh  clean  of 
cost,  you  might  say.  I  didn't  mean  to;  but  I'm  rich 
—  awful  rich! 

"  And  so,  seeing  I  ain't  got  no  heirs  of  my  own 
blood  and  kin,  I  been  looking  around  for  a  few  others, 
There's  that  Katherine ;  she's  a  good  girl.  She  kissed 
me  right  here  once."  And  the  old  man  put  his  hand 
on  the  top  of  his  head.  "  I'm  going  to  give  her  a  lit- 
tle something  after  I'm  dead;  for  instance,  this  house 
and  the  things  here  —  half  a  million  dollars  maybe. 
Likewise,  I've  fixed  up  a  few  things  for  my  faithful 
servitor  aforesaid,  Henry  Absalom  Wilson  —  which 
is  you,  Curly.  I  give  you  only  enough  for  cigarette 
money,"  says  he ;  "  never  mind  how  much.  And  as 
for  them  two,"  says  he  — "  her  and  the  Wisners'  hired 
man  —  not  a  cent!  Not  a  damned  cent!  I'll  show 
him! 

280 


HOW  THE  GAME  BROKE 

"  The  old  ranch,"  says  he,  "  is  going  to  be  fixed  up 
sometime  —  some  of  my  heirs  and  executors'll  get  a 
hold  of  that.  It's  easy  to  get  plenty  of  heirs  if  you 
have  twelve  or  fifty  million  dollars.  I've  left  instruc- 
tions to  make  improvements  out  there.  It'll  sort  of 
be  the  best  apology  I  can  make  to  the  woman  that's 
buried  out  there  —  Gawd  bless  her!  —  as  good  a  wo- 
man as  ever  lived  on  earth.  I  can't  see  how  she  could 
have  such  a  girl  like  she  done.  Well,"  he  finishes, 
sort  of  sighing.  "  I  done  my  best.  I  may  not  live 
more'n  thirty  or  forty  years  more. 

"  So,  now  then,  Curly,"  says  he  after  a  while, 
"  since  we've  finished  all  our  day's  work  and  have  a 
little  time  left,  we  can  now  engage  in  some  simple 
pastime,  such  as  mumblety-peg,  or  maybe  marbles,  till 
later  in  the  evening.  I'm  through  cutting  her  off, 
Curly,  and  I'm  happy.  I've  left  it  as  clean  as  I  know 
how.  Now  I'll  bet  you  a  thousand  dollars  I  can  beat 
you  three  games  out  of  five  at  mumblety-peg.  My 
executor,  without  bond/'  says  he,  going  right  on,  "  is 
Old  Man  Kimberly." 

"  You're  on,  Colonel,"  says  I ;  "  though  I  don't 
know  where  I'll  get  a  thousand  till  after  your  will  is 
probated." 

So  we  went  outdoors  and  set  down  on  the  grass  and 
played  mumblety-peg  —  me  losing  that  thousand, 
natural.  Then  we  sort  of  fussed  around  outdoors 

281 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


one  way  or  another  till  it  come  towards  dark.  He 
left  me  after  a  while  and  went  into  the  house  alone. 

When  I  went  in  I  seen  him  standing  by  hisself  in 
our  ranch  room,  looking  at  some  things  he'd  picked  up. 
They  was  a  white  silk  scarf  and  a  pair  of  long  white 
gloves  —  he'd  like  enough  found  'em  back  of  the  sofa, 
where  Bonnie  Bell  probably  dropped  'em  the  night 
when  I  seen  her  setting  there  wringing  her  hands  be- 
cause she  didn't  know  what  to  do.  We  never  let  no 
one  clean  up  the  ranch  room.  He  put  'em  down  soft 
on  the  sofa  and  smoothed  out  the  scarf  and  folded 
the  gloves;  it  was  like  he  was  laying  'em  away  in  a 
drawer. 

We  didn't  enjoy  nothing  much  to  eat,  not  even  ham 
and  aigs.  It  begun  to  get  dark  right  soon  after  that 
and  I  sort  of  wandered  out  on  the  front  walk  to  look 
around.  Old  Man  Wright  was  in  the  house  by  his- 
self. 

Right  then  I  seen  a  car  come  in  right  fast  and  pull 
up  at  the  sidewalk  about  halfway  between  our  house 
and  the  Wisners'.  Someone  got  out  of  the  car  and 
come  running  up  our  walk.  I  could  see  it  was  a  wo- 
man. Not  wishing  no  one  to  be  bothered  then,  I  went 
down  to  meet  her. 

It  was  Bonnie  Bell!     She'd  come  home  then. 

I  run  down  the  walk  to  meet  her  and  pushed  her 
away.  I  knew  it  wouldn't  do  for  them  two  to  meet 

282 


HOW  THE  GAME  BROKE 

now.  But  she  run  up  and  put  her  arms  around  my 
neck.  She  was  alone,  though  there  was  someone  in 
the  car  that  hadn't  got  out. 

"Curly!"  says  she,  "Curly!  I  saw  you  standing 
there  and  I  came  in.  Where  is  he,  Curly  ?  " 

I  nods  behind  me. 

"  In  there,"  says  I.     "  Don't  go  in  —  you  mustn't." 

"  I  must,  sometime.     Let  me  go  now." 

"No  you  don't,"  says  I.  "You  can't.  It's  too 
late." 

"Too  late?  Too  late?  Why,  what  do  you  mean, 
Curly?  I've  —  I've  come  back!  I  want  to  see  my 
dad!  I've  got  to  see  my  dad.  There's  lots  I  must 
tell  him.  He  don't  know  —  I  didn't  know." 

"  You  can't  see  your  dad  no  more,  kid,"  says  I. 
"  That  time  has  went  by.  I'm  foreman  here  till  mid- 
night of  today;  and  while  I  am  there  ain't  nobody 
going  to  bother  him.  He's  had  trouble  enough  al- 
ready." 

She  stood  sort  of  shaking.  I  had  her  wrists  in  my 
hands  now. 

"  When  it's  all  over,"  says  I  — "  meaning  a  few 
things  we're  going  to  settle  tonight  —  I'll  come  out  to 
you  in  Wyoming.  I  won't  be  foreman  here  no  more. 
I'm  going  to  go  and  throw  in  with  you,  even  against 
the  old  man." 

She  begun  to  cry  now. 

283 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


"  What  are  you  talking  about  ?  I  want  him !  "  says 
she.  "  I  want  to  see  my  dad.  I  need  him  —  and  he 
needs  me ! " 

"  Yes ;  he  does  need  you,"  says  I.  "  He's  needed 
you  for  a  long  time.  But  you  wouldn't  like  to  see 
him  now;  he's  changed  a  heap.  He  ain't  got  a  friend 
left  on  earth  except  me,  and  that  ends  at  midnight. 
He's  had  it  pretty  rough,  when  you  come  to  think  it 
all  over,"  says  I. 

"  I  must  go  in,  Curly,"  says  she. 

''No;  you  can't,"  says  I.  "I'm  foreman  and  I 
won't  let  you.  He  wouldn't  want  it ;  he's  marked  you 
off  his  books  —  we  just  been  doing  that  today,  with 
a  lawyer  and  a  barber. 

"  But,  Curly,  he  doesn't  know " 

"Huh!"  says  I.  "Well,  he  thinks  he  does.  He 
figures  you're  the  same  as  if  you  was  dead." 

"  Curly !  "  she  cries  now  hard.  "  Curly,  it  mustn't 
be!  It's  all  a  mistake;  it's  all  been  a  mistake.  I've 
come  back " 

"  Yes,"  says  I ;  "it  was  a  mistake.  It  ain't  been 
nothing  but  a  mistake  all  down  the  line.  But,  as  far 
as  it  can  be  squared,  the  old  man  and  me  we've  set 
out  to  square  it  tonight.  Him  and  me  is  going  to  call 
on  Old  Man  Wisner  this  evening,"  says  I.  "  We're 
going  over  as  soon  as  Old  Man  Wisner  gets  home. 
I'm  going  with  your  pa,  Bonnie.  You  know  me  and 

284 


HOW  THE  GAME  BROKE 

I  reckon  you  know  him  too.  I  reckon  there  may  be 
some  plain  conversation." 

"  I've  got  to  see  him ! "  says  she  over  and  over 
again. 

"  Well,  if  you  want  to  see  him,"  says  I,  "  you  go  on 
over  there  and,  like  enough,  you  will  see  him  before 
long.  You  belong  that  side  the  wall  now.  Tonight 
is  when  Old  Man  Wright  and  me  settles  with  Old  Man 
Wisner,  and  settles  permanent.  We  live  on  this 
side." 

She  turns  now  and  runs  away  so  fast  I  couldn't 
catch  her. 

I  seen  someone  get  out  of  the  car  now  —  a  man ; 
and  she  taken  his  arm  and  they  both  went  out  of  sight 
around  the  end  of  the  wall.  I  allowed  they'd  went  up 
to  the  door.  Right  soon  I  seen  a  light  in  their  higher 
windows  above  the  wall  —  you  could  just  see  that 
much  from  where  I  was  standing.  If  I'd  wanted  to 
go  upstairs  I  might  of  seen  more  from  our  windows; 
but  I  wouldn't  do  that  now. 

I  went  back  in  the  house  and  stood  near  our  door, 
watching  the  street.  In  about  half  or  three-quarters 
of  a  hour  I  seen  Old  Man  Wisner's  car  coming  in; 
there  was  lights  in  the  car  and  I  could  see  him  plain. 
He  was  setting  with  his  head  kind  of  bent  down.  I 
suppose,  like  enough,  he'd  already  been  served  with 
them  papers  of  ours  down  town.  He'd  got  into  town 

285 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


early  that  morning  and  been  busy  all  day  at  his  office. 
He  was  just  getting  home  now.  He  must  of  knowed 
he  was  busted. 

I  waited  for  half  a  hour  more,  so  things  could  get 
right  settled  down  over  there,  and  then  I  went  in  and 
found  Old  Man  Wright.  He  was  setting  still  as  a 
dead  man,  looking  into  the  fireplace  in  our  ranch  room, 
though  there  wasn't  no  fire.  He  was  all  dressed  up 
in  his  evening  clothes;  and  now  I  seen  why  he'd  had 
the  barber  come.  There  wasn't  a  finer-looking  gentle- 
man in  all  the  town  than  Old  Man  Wright  was  right 
then  —  though  him  pale  and  sad.  Lord,  how  sad  he 
was!  But  not  can-nye  —  none  whatever,  him,  even 
if  Old  Lady  Wisner  had  called  us  all  that. 

"  He's  come,  Colonel,"  says  I,  quiet,  turning  from 
one  sad  old  man  to  another  sad  old  man. 

I  didn't  say  nothing  to  him  about  who  else  I'd  seen 
in  our  front  yard;  I  didn't  want  to  stir  him  all  up, 
for  I  knowed  he'd  marked  Bonnie  Bell  off'n  his  books 
and  closed  the  books  for  keeps.  When  I  spoke  to  him 
he  turns  around  and  stands  up,  quiet. 

"  Very  well,"  says  he ;  "  we'll  go  on  over  now." 

So  us  two  walk  together  out  of  our  front  door.  He 
shuts  the  door  then  behind  him  and  we  go  on  down 
the  walk  together.  He  only  turns  once  and  looks  back 
at  the  house. 

The  whole  street  laid  there  in  front  of  us  when  we 
286 


HOW  THE  GAME  BROKE 

walked  out  from  our  yard  to  go  over  into  theirs. 
The  lights  was  all  lit  now,  miles  and  miles  of  'em; 
and  below  us  was  the  hundreds  of  thousands  more  of 
the  lights  of  the  big  city  —  the  city  that  hadn't  made 
us  as  happy  as  we  thought  it  was  going  to.  I  heard 
a  boat  whistle  deep  somewheres  out  on  the  lake  —  it 
sort  of  made  my  stomach  tremble. 

Over  west,  beyond  our  part  of  the  city,  you  could 
hear  a  low  sort  of  sound  like  maybe  of  street  cars; 
but  on  our  side  there  wasn't  anything  but  automobiles 
—  thousands  of  'em  —  going  along  as  swift  and 
smooth  as  birds.  Most  of  them  was  going  north  still ; 
but  on  the  other  side  of  the  street  some  was  going 
down,  maybe  with  people  going  to  the  theaters.  It 
was  about  the  time  when  people  in  the  city  eat  what 
they  call  dinner.  The  moon  was  coming  up  back 
of  our  house,  which  lay  there  all  black  —  not  a  light 
in  it  now.  I  could  see  the  flower  beds  in  our  yard, 
and  the  white  naked  statutes  standing  there.  It 
looked  right  pretty,  but  cold  like  a  graveyard. 

The  front  door  was  shut  and,  the  moon  being  up 
over  east,  the  part  of  the  house  toward  us  was  black- 
like.  I  remembered  what  the  lawyer  man  had  said 
about  things  being  signed,  sealed  and  delivered.  Well, 
we'd  closed  the  books.  It  was  to  hell  with  them  Bet- 
ter Things! 

I  didn't  tell  Old  Man  Wright  that  Bonnie  Bell  had 
287 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


been  there,  because  he  had  things  hard  enough  the 
way  it  was  and  I  was  working  for  him  yet  a  little 
while.  He  was  ca'm  as  a  summer  day  now. 

I'd  been  his  deputy  once  or  twice  when  we  had  to 
go  and  arrest  a  bad  man.  He  was  now  just  like  he 
was  then.  He  walks,  his  thumbs,  on  both  sides,  just 
resting  on  the  waistband  of  his  pants.  I  don't  know 
what  he  had  in  his  mind ;  but  you  couldn't  of  saw  the 
sign  of  a  gun  on  him  and  I'd  throwed  my  gun  away. 
His  coat  tails  hung  straight  down.  Outside  he  was 
plumb  civilized.  His  face  was  white  and  he  looked 
right  gentle  —  just  gentle.  He  wasn't.  As  for 
changing  him,  it  would  of  been  as  easy  to  change  one 
of  them  marble  statutes  over  in  our  garden. 

Them  Wisners  wasn't  watching  their  own  gate  like 
they'd  ought  to  of.  We  walked  on  up  their  stairs  and 
the  old  man  rung  the  bell  and  stood  there,  his  face 
without  no  expression  now. 

We  heard  some  noises  inside  there  —  their  dog  be- 
gun to  bark  and  it  seemed  like  people  was  talking. 
Their  William  opened  the  door  and  we  all  stood  there. 

Old  Man  Wright  reaches  out  his  arm  and  pushes 
him  to  one  side,  and  him  and  me  go  on  in,  walking 
fast  toward  the  middle  of  the  house. 


XXX 

HOW    IT    COME   OUT  AFTER   ALL 

THERE  was  a  curtain  acrost  the  door  between 
the  hall  and  the  room  beyond.  Old  Man 
Wright  made  one  sweep  and  throwed  open 
the  whole  room  before  us.  We  stood  there  in  the 
door,  neither  of  us  making  any  move.  Everything 
stopped  then.  There  wasn't  nobody  talking  no  more. 
What  we  seen  before  us  was  something  you  couldn't 
hardly  of  figured  on  seeing  at  all. 

They  was  all  setting  at  the  dinner  table  and  they 
was  all  dressed  up.  There  was  Old  Man  Wisner  and 
the  old  lady,  and  Bonnie  Bell  —  she  was  setting  next 
to  the  old  lady.  Just  beyond,  and  square  acrost  the 
table  from  us,  facing  us,  was  the  hired  man  —  the 
man  on  whose  account  we'd  come  to  square  things 
now  and  leave  them  signed,  sealed  and  delivered. 

I  thought  it  was  right  funny  for  their  hired  man  to 
be  eating  with  them,  and  him  all  dressed  up  just  like 
them.  Then  I  remembered  how  fresh  he'd  always 
been  and  how  he'd  bragged  about  the  pull  he  had  with 
them  people.  And  I  remembered  the  talk  I'd  heard 
between  him  and  Old  Lady  Wisner  too.  Anyways, 

289 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


there  he  was  setting,  big  as  life;  and  if  they  was  hav- 
ing any  trouble  over  anything  you  couldn't  see  it. 
No  one  was  shedding  no  tears  and  there  didn't  seem 
to  be  no  war  going  on, 

I  felt  like  I  was  up  in  the  air.  I  felt  like  I'd  been 
dreaming  about  something  and  hadn't  woke  up.  I 
couldn't  figure  out  what  it  was  I  seen*  No  one  spoke 
a  word. 

You  must  remember  that  Old  Man  Wright  didn't 
know  yet  Bonnie  Bell  was  anywhere  within  three 
thousand  miles  of  him.  And  when  he  pulled  aside 
the  curtain  there  she  was,  setting  right  at  their  table! 
And  right  acrost  was  a  young  man  setting,  too  —  a 
young  man  who  he  don't  know  none. 

You  see,  he  never  had  saw  that  hired  man  at  all, 
so  as  to  know  him.  I  hadn't  told  the  old  man  about 
Bonnie  Bell  being  there,  because  I  allowed  he'd  find 
it  out  anyways.  Now  he  had. 

It  was  Bonnie  Bell  that  moved  first  —  for  she  knew 
what  might  happen.  She  made  one  jump  for  her  pa 
and  threw  her  arms  round  him  —  not  around  his  neck, 
but  down  around  his  arms.  She  didn't  try  to  kiss 
him  —  she  didn't  say  a  word ;  she  was  scared.  She 
knowed  where  he  carried  his  gun  —  up  under  his  shoul- 
der. I  never  knowed  whether  she  found  it  or  not. 

"  No !  "  says  she,  quick ;  and  she  locked  her  hands 
behind  his  back  so  he  couldn't  get  his  arms  loose. 

290 


She  knowed  where  he  carried  his  gun." 


HOW  IT  COME  OUT  AFTER  ALL 

"  No !  No ;  you  can't  —  you  shan't !  No,  no !  "  she 
says.  "Dad!  Dad!" 

Ordinary  she  would  of  been  no  more  than  a  straw 
to  him,  he  was  that  strong.  But,  you  see,  he  wasn't 
expecting  to  see  her  —  and  a  lot  of  things  come  over 
him  all  at  once.  Here  she  was,  with  her  arms  around 
him  anyways,  no  matter  what  for. 

For  once  Old  Man  Wright  forgot.  His  hand  only 
kind  of  went  out  to  hers  where  they  was,  and  he  says, 
trembly : 

"  Bonnie,  girl !     I  didn't  know  you  was  here ! " 

By  that  time  everybody  was  on  their  feet.  The 
hired  man  starts  for  us,  but  I  stopped  him. 

"  Not  yet,"  says  I.  "  I'm  working  for  the  old  boss 
till  midnight  tonight.  You  stay  where  you  are." 

When  I  said  that  Old  Man  Wisner  and  Old  Lady 
Wisner  they  just  froze  right  where  they  was.  But 
Bonnie  Bell  didn't.  She  turns  to  me  now  and  I  felt 
her  hand  on  my  arm. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  you  men?  Are  you  crazy?  " 
says  she.  "  I'll  not  have  this !  Set  down !  You, 
Curly  —  you  make  any  break  here  and  I'll  slap  you 
in  the  face,"  says  she.  "  You  hear  me  ?  Don't  you 
start  anything  here !  " 

Well,  now,  you  wouldn't  think  we'd  all  been  broke 
up  thataways  just  by  a  girl,  would  you?  But  she  had 
us  on  the  run  before  we  got  started.  It  was  mostly 

291 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


because  of  all  this  being  so  unexpected.  I  didn't  ex- 
pect to  see  the  hired  man  at  their  table  and  Old  Man 
Wright  didn't  expect  to  see  Bonnie  Bell  at  all;  so  the 
whole  herd  begun  to  mill  round. 

She  pushed  her  pa  down  into  a  seat,  and  me  too. 

"  So  that's  the  way  you  act  when  I'm  not  here ! " 
says  she.  "  You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  your- 
selves," says  she.  "  I  won't  have  any  more  of  this." 

Their  hired  man  set  down  now,  right  serious.  He 
didn't  laugh  none  nor  try  to  pass  it  off.  We  all  knew 
that  it  was  a  show-down,  that  it  was  a  settlement,  and 
that  it  had  to  go  through. 

Old  Man  Wright  he  didn't  seem  to  look  at  anyone 
but  Bonnie  Bell.  If  you  can  say  a  man  can  look  hun- 
gry with  his  eyes,  that's  the  way  he  looked  then.  By 
this  time  she  was  crying,  and  she  puts  her  arms  around 
his  neck  now. 

"Dad!"  says  she.  "Pore  old  dad!  Pore  old 
foolish,  unhappy  dad !  "  Now  she  begins  to  kiss  him 
some;  but  he  can't  talk  none  —  only  pats  her  shoul- 
ders. 

"  I'm  the  wretchedest,  wickedest  girl  on  earth,"  says 
she  to  him,  pushing  back  his  hair,  "  and  I'm  the  hap- 
piest too!  Dad,  listen  to  me.  You  mustn't  sit  in 
judgment.  Don't  take  things  so  hard.  Wait  —  try 
to  see.  Try  to  see  if  maybe  there  isn't  some  other 
will  in  the  world  besides  your  own,  dad  —  maybe  some 

292 


HOW  IT  COME  OUT  AFTER  ALL 

will  bigger  than  all  of  ours.  I  couldn't  help  it,  dad  — 
I  couldn't !  I'm  so  happy,"  says  she,  "  so  foolish 
happy  now ! " 

"  Happy  ?  "  says  he  at  last ;  and  he  pushes  her  away 
from  him.  "  With  him,  there  ?  "  He  nods  now  at 
the  hired  man,  having  got  him  placed.  "  What's  he 
doing  here?"  says  he. 

"  Why  shouldn't  he  be  here  ?  "  says  Old  Man  Wis- 
ner  right  then,  speaking  for  the  first  time.  "  He's 
my  son ! " 

"What's  that?"  says  Old  Man  Wright.  "Your 
son!" 

"Shore!"  says  he.  "Who'd  you  think  he  was? 
He  can  eat  at  my  table.  He's  done  well ;  he's  married 
the  best  girl  I  ever  seen !  "  says  he.  Then  he  gets  so 
he  can't  talk  worth  a  cent  too. 

Shucks!  I  wisht  I  was  most  any  place  else.  His 
son !  How  could  his  son  be  his  hired  man,  and  where 
was  the  hired  man  if  this  wasn't  him?  I  felt  myself 
begin  to  get  sweaty  on  my  face  and  all  over.  I'd 
been  one  awful  fool,  me. 

"  Dave  Wisner,"  says  Old  Man  Wright,  "  I  come 
acrost  to  settle  things  with  you.  Our  account  is  some 
long.  You've  made  it  hard  for  me  —  awful  hard! 
—  when  you  made  your  hired  man  run  off  with  my 
girl.  Your  son!  What  kind  of  talk  is  this?  What 
do  you  mean  ?  " 

293 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


"  But  he  is  OUT  son ! "  says  Old  Lady  Wisner  right 
then,  her  speaking  for  the  first  time.  "  In  heaven's 
name,  who  did  you  think  he  was?  Hired  man! 
What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  It's  what  I  been  trying  to  tell  you  and  Curly," 
says  Bonnie  Bell  now,  holding  to  her  pa's  coat  with 
one  hand  and  patting  him  hard  on  the  shoulder  with 
the  other.  "  I  told  you  it  was  all  a  mistake  —  every- 
thing was  all  mixed  up.  Except  for  Gawd's  mercy 
sending  me  here  right  now,  somebody  might  of  been 
killed,  for  all  I  know,"  says  she.  "  You  men  ain't 
got  no  more  brains  than  a  rabbit.  It's  time  I  come !  " 

"Your  son!"  says  Old  Man  Wright.  "Son! 
And  Curly  said  he  was  your  hired  man ! " 

Old  Man  Wisner  laughs  right  out  loud  at  that. 

"  Hired  man !  Oh,  I  see  how  you  thought  that ! 
You  maybe  seen  him  pottering  around  in  the  flowers 
like  —  he  was  always  dotty  about  them  things  —  but 
no  hired  man ;  he  wasn't  hardly  worth  a  salary." 

"And  what  do  you  think?"  laughs  Bonnie  Bell  at 
Old  Lady  Wisner  then.  "  His  mother  thought  once 
I  was  a  hired  girl ! " 

Old  Lady  Wisner  for  quite  a  while  she'd  been  play- 
ing a  sort  of  accompaniment,  talking  to  herself. 
First,  she  starts  in  and  says :  "  Oh,  my  laws !  Oh, 
my  laws  sakes !  Oh  my  laws  sakes  alive !  " —  over 
and  over  again,  she  was  that  scared.  And  now  she 

294 


HOW  IT  COME  OUT  AFTER  ALL 

begun  to  say :  "  Bless  my  soul !  Gawd  bless  my  soul ! 
Oh,  Gawd  bless  my  soul ! "  And  she  says  that  right 
over  and  over  again  too. 

"  I  told  you,  Curly,"  says  Bonnie  Bell  now,  "  that 
there'd  been  a  mistake  all  around.  Why  didn't  you 
tell  my  dad  I  was  here?  " 

"  Well,"  says  I,  "  I  allowed  he'd  find  it  out  after 
a  while.  Ain't  he?" 

I  was  sweating  awful  now  and  I  felt  how  red  my 
hair  was.  I  toed  in  so  bad  my  legs  was  crossed. 

"  I've  found  out  a  lot  of  things,"  says  Old  Man 
Wright  now,  right  sudden  and  swift.  "  I  been  mak- 
ing some  mistakes  my  own  self;  but  you" — and  he 
faces  their  hired  man  now  — "  you  passed  yourself 
off  for  a  servant." 

"  That's  true,  sir,"  says  he.  "  I  was  under  false 
colors  for  a  long  while  and  I  hated  it  as  much  as  any- 
one could.  But  what  could  I  do?  I  couldn't  find  any 
way  to  meet  her.  I  didn't  want  her  money  and  I 
didn't  want  her  to  want  mine.  Well,  that's  how  it 
happened.  I  deceived  you  all,  that's  true.  I  deceived 
her  too  —  she  didn't  really  know  who  I  was  until  less 
than  a  week  ago.  Then  she  came  home." 

"  Why  didn't  you  come  and  tell  me  at  first  ?  "  says 
Old  Man  Wright. 

"How  could  I?"  says  he.  "I  knew  what  that 
would  mean,  from  all  Curly  said.  Besides,  I  wanted 

295 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 

to  win  her  just  for  what  I  was  —  just  for  what  she 
was.  I  wanted  to  be  sure  she'd  love  me  ttie  way  I 
wanted,  for  just  what  I  was.  I'm  sure  now. 

"  But  I  was  going  to  come  and  tell  you ;  we  came 
on  now  for  that  very  thing  —  the  two  of  us,  as  you 
see.  It  wasn't  any  pleasure  for  me  to  deceive  either 
you  or  her  —  I  never  liked  that  any  more  than  you 
did." 

Old  Man  Wright  he  just  set  looking  at  him,  and  he 
couldn't  talk.  The  young  fellow  went  on. 

"  I  loved  her  the  first  time  I  saw  her,  sir,"  says  he. 
"  I  resolved,  the  first  time  I  ever  saw  her,  that  some- 
time I'd  marry  her.  I  did.  And  we're  happy  — 
we're  happier  than  I  ever  thought  anybody  could  be. 
How  can  you  bear  a  grudge  against  a  girl  like  that  — 
your  own  girl?  She's  only  done  what  she  thought 
was  right.  And  it  was  right  too !  And  it  goes !  " 

"  So  you're  the  son  of  this  family !  "  says  Old  Man 
Wright,  slow.  "  That  can't  be  helped,  neither.  I  — 
well,  I  didn't  know.  I  —  I  thought  you  wanted  her 
for  her  money.  I'll  go  so  far  as  to  say  that." 

"  It  wouldn't  of  made  any  difference,"  says  Bonnie 
Bell  then.  "  I'd  of  married  him  anyway.  It's  just 
like  he  says  —  he  never  told  me  about  it  until  just  a 
little  while  ago.  I  thought  he  was  some  sort  of  a  dis- 
tant relative  of  the  Wisner  family.  If  you  stop  to 
think  you  can  see  how  all  these  things  happened  easy 

296 


HOW  IT  COME  OUT  AFTER  ALL 

enough.  Especially  you  can  when  you  stop  to  think 
that,  on  foot  and  off  a  horse,  Curly  is  apt  to  do  more 
fool  things  than  a  cageful  of  white  rats  —  God  bless 
him!  Because  nobody  else  but  him  could  of  done 
just  what  he's  done !  " 

"  Well,  it  does  seem  to  me,"  says  I  then,  "  that  most 
of  this  happened  account  of  me.  I  reckon  I  made 
about  as  many  fool  breaks  as  any  fellow  could,"  says 
I.  "  Like  I  told  your  pa,  I  couldn't  see  a  load  of  hay. 
But  here's  where  I  quit.  It  don't  look  like  you  need 
me  no  more,  for  things  is  mixed  up  now  as  bad  as  they 
can  get,"  says  I. 

"  Keep  still,  Curly,"  says  Bonnie  Bell  to  me.  "  Set 
down!" 

About  then  I  seen  them  two  old  men  looking  at 
each  other.  Without  saying  nothing,  they  both  got 
up  and  went  out  into  the  parlor  together.  We 
couldn't  hear  what  they  said.  For  that  matter,  we 
couldn't  hear  what  we  said  ourselfs,  because  of  some- 
thing that  happened  around  in  there. 

Their  collie  dog,  Caesar,  was  barking  at  us  when  we 
come  in.  He'd  sort  of  got  under  the  table.  But  now 
we  heard  another  dog  barking  plumb  crazy.  And 
now  in  comes  from  somewhere,  out  in  the  garridge  or 
the  car  maybe,  that  Boston  dog,  Peanut,  of  Bonnie 
Bell's! 

He  was  looking  for  a  settlement  too,  He  don't 
297 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


hesitate,  but  he  goes  straight  for  this  collie  under  the 
table,  and  they  mix  it  plenty  right  then  and  there,  till 
most  of  us  was  glad  enough  to  get  up  on  the  chairs. 
I  tried  to  stop  them  and  the  old  lady  and  Bonnie  Bell 
was  both  hollering  at  them;  but  the  hired  man  he 
raised  his  hand. 

"  Let  them  alone !  "  says  he.  "  They  got  almost 
human  intelligence  someways,"  says  he.  "  Let  'em 
alone,  so  they  can  have  it  out." 

So  they  had  it  out  for  quite  a  while  there  in  the 
dining-room,  under  the  table  and  among  the  chairs, 
and  under  the  sofa,  and  pretty  much  everywhere,  both 
of  'em  enjoying  of  theirselfs  plenty.  Their  dog, 
Caesar,  had  got  older  now  and  Peanut  he  had  his  hands 
full;  but  he  was  shore  industrious  and  sincere. 

By  and  by,  after  quite  a  while,  they  hauled  apart 
and  set  looking  at  each  other,  their  tongues  hanging 
out,  happy  and  smiling.  Peanut  he  goes  over  to  his 
mistress,  and  he  was  shaking  a  ear  that  was  loose. 
Caesar  he  goes  over  to  the  old  lady,  limping  and  hold- 
ing up  his  foot,  him  looking  plumb  contented. 

"  They'll  get  along  all  right  now,"  says  the  hired 
man  —  James,  or  Jimmie,  or  Jim,  whatever  you  ought 
to  call  him. 

I  couldn't  believe  he  was  young  Mr.  James  Wisner. 
Sometimes  I  don't  hardly  even  yet. 

"  You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourselves,"  says 
298 


HOW  IT  COME  OUT  AFTER  ALL 

Bonnie  Bell.  "  I  declare,  men  are  brutes  any- 
how ! " 

"  I  know  it,  Bonnie  Bell,"  says  I.  "  I've  made 
plenty  of  trouble,  but  not  no  more.  I'm  taking  the 
morning  train  West,"  says  I. 

"  Where  to?  "  she  ast  me;  and  I  can't  answer  —  for 
me  the  whole  world  was  upside  down,  same  as  this 
room  here. 

About  then  the  two  old  men  come  back  into  the 
room,  both  of  them  serious;  but  you  could  see  easy 
that  they  hadn't  had  no  war  —  only  some  kind  of  a 
squaring  and  settling  up;  I  reckon  because  of  Bonnie 
Bell  and  this  James,  or  Jimmie,  or  Jim,  not  being  no 
hired  man  none  after  all,  which  maybe  he  had  a  straw- 
berry mark  on  his  arm  —  I  don't  know  how  they 
proved  it. 

Old  Man  Wright  he  stood  up,  with  his  hand  on  top 
of  a  chair ;  and  he  made  a  little  after-dinner  talk  that 
cost  him,  maybe,  several  million  dollars  —  not  that  he 
cared ! 

"  I  come  here  tonight,"  says  he,  "  to  maybe  take  the 
law  into  my  own  hands  —  anyways  I  reckon  I  come 
here  to  set  in  judgment;  but  I  wasn't  no  good  judge, 
because  I  was  trying  the  case  without  having  all  of  the 
facts.  But  I'm  this  kind  of  man,"  says  he,  "  that 
when  I've  made  a  mistake,  and  know  it,  I'm  game  to 
stand  up  and  say  so.  That's  what  I'm  doing  now.  I 

299 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


reckon  I  been  wrong.  Some  things  you  can't  help.  I 
ain't  going  to  try  to  help  this  no  more. 

"  The  fact  is,  I  reckon,  maybe  it's  the  best  thing 
that  could  of  happened.  It  didn't  happen  through  me. 
I  done  my  best  to  keep  it  from  happening.  That's 
where  I  was  wrong.  I'm  glad  of  all  this  now  and  I 
take  back  what  I  said.  I've  been  a  twenty-two  carat, 
pink-eyed,  black-striped  wild  ass  of  the  desert,  though 
not  halfway  as  big  a  fool  as  Curly.  It  was  him  that 
got  us  all  in  wrong." 

Old  Man  Wisner  he  stands  up  too;  and  he  makes 
his  confession  that's  good  for  his  soul.  His  Adam's 
apple  kind  of  walked  up  and  down  his  neck,  but  he 
come  through. 

"  Don't  say  no  more,  Colonel,"  says  he.  "  I'm  to 
blame  for  all  this  myself.  I  was  the  biggest  fool  that 
ever  was.  That  fence  —  why,  that  fence  now " 

James,  or  Jimmie,  or  Jim,  and  Bonnie  Bell  they 
looks  at  each  other  then  and  laughs  right  out. 

"  You  didn't  build  it  high  enough,"  says  he ;  "  you 
couldn't!" 

"  I'm  glad  I  couldn't,"  says  Old  Man  Wisner. 
"  Things  are  going  to  come  out  all  right,  the  way  they 
ought  to  come.  I've  learned  a  lot  tonight  —  a  lot 
about  being  neighbors.  Son,  we  had  a  neighbor  and 
we  didn't  know  it.  Maybe  it's  that  way  plenty  times. 
We  had  one  neighbor  that  has  saved  your  father  from 

300 


HOW  IT  COME  OUT  AFTER  ALL 

being  broke  and  disgraced  before  all  the  world  —  be- 
fore tomorrow  night.  That's  what  kind  of  neighbors 
we  had  all  along,"  says  he ;  "  and  we  tried  to  build  a 
fence  and  keep  them  away  from  us!  Yes;  thank 
Gawd,  I  couldn't  build  the  fence  high  enough,"  says  he. 

"  I  knew  something  about  this,  dad,"  says  James,  or 
Jimmie,  or  Jim,  then.  "  I  could  of  told  you  long  ago 
that  ranch  deal  couldn't  win.  Scale  it  down,  get  at 
the  real  business  and  human  values,  and  it  ought  to 
win  —  and  win  big !  " 

Old  Man  Wisner  he's  always  rather  strong  for  or- 
ganization. He  looks  over  at  Old  Man  Wright  and 
they  both  look  at  this  young  man ;  and  they  both  nod. 

"  That's  a  good  idea,"  says  Old  Man  Wright  — "  a 
damn  good  idea !  Now  then,  we're  beginning  to  talk. 
Why  can't  we  throw  the  two  businesses  in  together 
and  make  one  hand  wash  the  other,  and  let  this  young 
gentleman  take  care  of  the  reorganization  on  the 
spot?" 

"  That's  the  idea !  "  breaks  in  Bonnie  Bell  right  then. 
"  There  ain't  any  better  cow  country  out-of-doors  than 
the  Yellow  Bull  Valley.  I  know  that.  Give  us  a 
chance  and  we'll  pull  this  whole  business  out  of  the 
hole,"  says  she. 

"  James,"  says  Old  Man  Wright,  and  he  walks 
around  and  holds  out  his  hand,  playing  the  game  wide 
open,  like  he  always  done  — "  James,"  says  he,  "  will 

301 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


you  shake  hands  with  the  worst  old  fool  there  is  in  the 
whole  world  —  except  Curly  ?  " 

Now  James  he's  been  doing  pretty  well  up  to  now, 
but  this  about  knocks  him  out.  He  gets  up,  kind  of 
red  and  startled,  and  he  shakes  hands  with  the  Old 
Man;  but  he  couldn't  say  nothing  and  didn't  seem  to 
Know  what  to  do  with  his  hands.  So  he  puts  his  hand 
in  his  pocket,  like  a  man  will,  and  he  seems  to  feel 
something  there;  and  all  at  once,  not  being  able  to 
think  of  nothing  else,  he  pulls  out  what  he  found  and 
holds  it  out  to  Old  Man  Wright. 

"Colonel,"  says  he,  "will  you  have  a  chew?  It's 
Arrow  Head  —  same  name  as  our  home  spring  out 
there,"  says  he.  "  I've  used  no  other  since.  I  just 
heard  you  own  most  of  the  stock  in  the  Arrow  Head 
Tobacco  Company;  but  I  ain't  surprised.  You  ain't 
overlooked  much ! " 

I  reckon  that  was  the  luckiest  accident  ever  hap- 
pened to  him  —  when  he  found  that  piece  of  plug. 
Old  Man  Wright  taken  a  bite  of  it  liberal,  and  says 
he: 

"  Son,  do  you  wear  garters  ?  " 

Everybody  fell  to  laughing  then,  excepting  me  and 
Old  Man  Wright.  It  was  serious  for  us.  We  was 
figuring  on  cowmen  now.  Bonnie  Bell,  she  goes  up 
to  her  pa  once  more  and  hugs  him,  and  looks  at  the 
hired  man. 

302 


HOW  IT  COME  OUT  AFTER  ALL 

"  Don't  mind  him,  Jim,"  says  she.  "  He's  awful 
sometimes ;  but  he  means  all  right  and  he  has  his  own 
ways  of  figuring.  I've  got  the  best  dad  in  the 
world !  "  says  she. 

"  You  had  the  best  ma  in  the  world,"  says  Old  Man 
Wright.  "  Seems  to  me  sometimes  you  favor  your 
ma,"  says  he. 

Then  they  kissed  each  other;  fact  is,  most  every- 
body got  kissed  around  there  excepting  me.  Yet, 
when  you  come  to  figure  about  it,  I'd  been  responsible 
for  a  good  many  of  those  things  and  the  way  they 
come  out,  and  I  didn't  get  no  credit  for  it.  No  fore- 
man ever  does. 

Old  Lady  Wisner,  like  I  said,  she  was  setting  there 
and  saying  mostly:  "  Gawd  bless  me!  "  and  "  Gawd 
bless  my  soul!" — nobody  paying  much  attention  to 
her.  But  now  Bonnie  Bell  she  sidles  over  to  her  and 
sort  of  puts  out  her  hand,  shy.  The  old  lady  she  puts 
a  arm  around  her,  and  she  begins  to  cry  too.  They 
was  both  right  happy.  Dogs  has  to  fight  and  women 
has  to  cry;  then  they're  happy.  I  reckon  them  two 
had  some  sort  of  understanding. 

"  Son,"  says  Old  Man  Wright  after  a  while  to 
James,  or  Jimmie,  or  Jim,  "  where  have  I  saw  you 
before?"  He'd  been  looking  at  him  for  some 
time. 

"  The  first  time  you  ever  seen  me,  Colonel,"  says  he, 
303 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


"  was  when  I  fell  in  love  with  your  daughter,  sir," 
says  he.  "  That  was  when  I  drove  you  home  to  your 
house  on  Christmas  Eve." 

'You  drove  —  when  you  drove  us  home!"  says 
Old  Man  Wright.  "  What  do  you  mean  about  that? 
We  had  our  own  car;  and  I  give  the  driver  a  ten- 
dollar  gold  piece  that  night  because  it  was  Christmas 
Eve.  He  got  lit  up;  so  he  was  wabbly  next  day  too. 
I  remember  that." 

"  So  do  I,"  says  James,  laughing.  "  I've  got  that 
money  now.  But  it  was  your  real  driver  that  got  lit 
up,  not  me.  You  see,  when  Bonnie  Bell  come  out  in 
the  storm  that  night  she  didn't  notice  that  it  wasn't  her 
car.  Hers  looked  a  good  deal  like  it  —  both  the  same 
make  and  right  new.  Maybe  she  wasn't  very  well  ac- 
quainted with  her  new  chauffore  yet;  so  she  says  to 
me  to  take  her  home.  So  I  had  to  do  that." 

"  How  did  you  know  where  to  go  ?  "  ast  Bonnie 
Bell  then,  laughing. 

"  I  knew  all  about  you ! "  says  he.  "  I'd  been  busy 
for  over  a  hour  there  in  the  hotel  dining-room  with 
Henderson,  and  that  was  long  enough  to  learn  all  I 
ever  wanted  to  know.  I  knew  how  rich  you  were. 
That  was  why  I  drove  you  home  and  didn't  let  you 
know  who  I  was ;  that  was  why  I  never  tried  to  call ; 
that  was  why  a  lot  of  things  happened  right  the  way 
they  did.  I  had  some  fool  theories  of  my  own, 

3°4 


HOW  IT  COME  OUT  AFTER  ALL 

maybe;  maybe  I  did  get  a  touch  of  socialism  or  some- 
thing of  that  kind  when  I  was  in  college. 

"  But  anyway,  Colonel  Wright,"  he  goes  on,  "  I 
want  to  say  to  you,  sir,  that  I've  known  you  and  ad- 
mired you  a  lot  more  than  you  ever  knew.  I  voted 
for  you  for  alderman  —  though  my  own  dad  was  run- 
ning against  you.  I  thought  you  stood  for  what  I 
thought  was  right.  All  the  world  is  really  neighbors," 
says  he,  "  and  the  human  democracy  is  good  enough 
for  me.  I  voted  for  you  then  —  and  I  do  now.  My 
dad  has  a  lot  to  learn." 

He  turns  to  his  pa  then,  and  the  old  man  like  to  of 
blew  up,  he  was  so  mad ;  but  we  all  ended  by  laughing 
at  this  too. 

"  Son,"  says  Old  Man  Wright,  "  did  you  say  to  me 
that  you  used  one  of  them  old-fashioned  razors?  I'm 
this  sort  of  man  that  sometimes  they  say  has  got  prejer- 
dices.  Now  I  always  hone  my  own  razors." 

"  So  do  I,"  says  James,  or  Jimmie,  or  Jim. 

The  old  man  he  hesitates  a  while  and  lookls  at 
him  right  sad ;  and  he  says,  like  he  was  talking  to  his- 
self: 

"  Well,  well !  I  do  wonder  how  I  was  such  a  hand- 
painted  idiot  all  the  time!  I  believe  we  shore  can 
make  a  cowman  out  of  you  yet,  "  says  he. 

"  It's  in  sixes  and  sevens,"  says  James,  or  Jimmie, 
or  Jim,  "  but  there's  a  chance  there  on  that  ranch. 

305 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


Maybe  I  can  learn.  And  it's  so  fine  out  there  — 
with  the  mountains,  and  the  skies,  and  the  wind  blow- 
ing in  the  sage,  and  the  " 

"  Hush,  man ! "  says  Old  Man  Wright  to  him. 
"  You're  making  me  so  homesick  I  can't  stand  it. 
We'll  all  go  out  there  to  live.  I'll  tell  you  what  we'll 
do,"  says  he  in  his  rushing  way,  sort  of  taking  the 
lead  of  things.  "  We'll  keep  these  two  houses  in  here 
for  both  of  us  for  our  city  homes,  and  we'll  all  of  us 
have  the  old  ranch  for  our  country  homes,"  says  he. 
"  And  we'll  all  run  the  business  plumb  sensible  on  good 
business  lines,"  says  he,  "  with  the  peaches  and  cream 
out,  and  the  ribs,  chucks  and  plates  all  in.  Why, 
we'll " 

"  Oh,  dad ! "  says  Bonnie  Bell,  and  she  goes  up  to 
the  old  man,  crying  because  she  was  happy.  She'd 
seen  him  change  right  there  before  her  —  he'd  got 
forty  years  younger  in  the  last  ten  minutes.  "  Dad," 
says  she  — "  dad,  we  will  —  when  ?  " 

"  Daughter,"  says  he,  "  we're  going  to  begin  right 
now  to  get  them  Better  Things  we  started  out  for. 
You're  going  to  have  the  place  in  life  that  your  ma 
said  you'd  ought  to  have.  You  and  Katherine,"  says 
he,  "  will  have  to  fix  it  up  about  that  house  I  was  go- 
ing to  leave  in  my  last  will  and  testament.  But,  like 
I  said,  I'm  going  to  give  Kathrine  half  a  million  when 
she  marries  —  if  she  marries  as  good  a  man  as  you 

306 


HOW  IT  COME  OUT  AFTER  ALL 

did.  You  see,  Katherine  kissed  me  —  right  here  in  a 
soft  spot  —  on  top  of  my  old  bald  head." 

He  rubs  the  place  then.  Bonnie  Bell  she  kisses  him 
there  too  —  for  maybe  sever'l  million. 

After  a  while  I  sort  of  moved  over  toward  the  door, 
it  seeming  like  it  wasn't  no  place  for  me  no  more. 

"  Where  you  going  ?  "  says  Old  Man  Wright  to  me ; 
and  Old  Man  Wisner  he  says  something,  too,  about  my 
not  being  in  a  hurry. 

"  I  don't  know,  but  I  reckon  I'll  be  moving  along 
now.  Looks  like  I  been  some  foreman.  I  done  all 
this.  But  what  thanks  do  I  get  for  it?  " 

I  starts  away  to  get  outside  this  kissing  zone,  so  to 
speak.  I  didn't  know  but  Old  Lady  Wisner'd  try 
to  kiss  me.  I  didn't  want  that  to  happen. 

"  Ho,  ho!  "  says  Old  Man  Wright,  laughing  like  he 
did  years  ago.  "  Hear  that  fool  boy  talk,  won't  you, 
Dave?  You  can't  quit,  Curly,"  says  he;  "there's  too 
much  for  you  to  do  out  there  on  the  old  ranch.  Do 
you  suppose  you  could  teach  this  kid  to  rope  ?  "  says  he. 

"  I  already  got  a  start  at  it,"  says  I.  "  Him  and 
me  used  to  practice  some." 

Well  now,  that  was  how  come  us  to  square  it  all 
up,  both  sides,  and  come  to  a  understanding  that  didn't 
noways  seem  possible  just  a  little  while  before.  That 
was  how  we  come  to  go  back  to  the  old  Yellow  Bull 

307 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


country,  for  part  of  the  year  anyways.  It  was  how  a 
right  bad  run-in  was  saved.  It  was  how  Old  Man 
Wisner  was  kept  from  busting  wide  open  the  next  day, 
and,  like  enough,  a  bank  or  so  along  with  him.  Like- 
wise it  was  how  them  two  fortunes,  maybe  fifty  or 
ninety  million  or  more  between  them  when  they  got 
things  cleaned  up,  was  joined  till  death  do  them  part.' 
When  them  two  old  fellows  got  to  pulling  together 
something  had  to  crack.  We  shore  got  a  business 
now  —  sever '1  of  'em. 

I  got  Jimmie  —  we  come  to  call  him  that  on  the 
ranch  —  so  he  could  rope  some  inside  his  first  year, 
though  I  had  to  show  him  how  to  spread  his  loop 
a  little  wide  and  not  to  depend  on  soaping  his  hon- 
doo. 

It  was  like  old  times  to  see  a  kid  beginning  on  the 
range  in  the  one  man's  game  that's  worth  while  on 
earth  —  raising  cows  in  a  good  cow  country.  I  was 
glad  I  hadn't  shot  Jimmie,  or  my  boss  hadn't  shot  his 
pa  —  I  wouldn't  of  minded  so  about  Old  Lady  Wis- 
ner, because  I  couldn't  help  remembering  how  she'd 
made  trouble  deliberate  from  the  first.  Of  course  I'd 
made  trouble,  too,  but  I  hadn't  went  to. 

What  become  of  the  old  wall  between  them  two 
houses?  Nothing  much;  we  left  it  stand,  for  some- 
ways  it  didn't  seem  so  high  no  more  when  Bonnie 
Bell's  ivy  and  them  Other  plants  begun  to  hang  down 

308 


HOW  IT  COME  OUT  AFTER  ALL 

on  it.  But,  of  course,  I  had  to  bust  the  hole  in  a  little 
bit  bigger  after  a  while,  so  as  the  twins  could  get 
through  right  easy,  as  well  as  Peanut.  One  was 
named  David  Abraham  and  the  other  John  William; 
but  they  couldn't  help  it. 

The  best  time  was  when  we  all  rounded  up  one 
spring  out  there  at  the  station  to  go  out  on  the  ranch 
for  the  spring  round-up,  and  to  start  things  running 
for  the  year.  Old  Man  Wisner  and  the  old  lady  was 
there,  and  Old  Man  Wright  and  Jimmie  and  Bonnie 
Bell  and  me  —  me  that  was  foreman  now  and,  like 
enough,  earning  it,  the  way  things  had  been  let  go  to 
pieces. 

We'd  come  down  from  Cody  to  that  station  where 
I  found  Jimmie  —  time  I  was  out  hunting  for  him. 
For  a  while  we'd  been  quite  considerable  busy  getting 
things  packed,  ready  to  go  out  to  the  ranch.  We  had 
two  wagons,  one  full  of  groceries  and  things.  They'd 
even  put  in  fly  screens  out  there  now  and  had  rocking 
chairs  to  set  around  in.  Old  Man  Wright  was  as 
busy  as  a  fiddler  getting  things  pulled  together.  His 
sleeves  was  rolled  up,  and  all  at  once  Jimmie  looks  at 
him  and  says: 

"  Colonel,  if  I'm  not  mistaken  your  freckles  is  com- 
ing back  again." 

The  old  man  roars  laughing  at  that. 

''Yes/'  he  says;  "  I'm  almost  fit  to  run  for  sher'f 
309 


THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOR 


oncet  more.  Ain't  it  all  like  the  old  times,  Curly?" 
says  he. 

"  It  shore  is,  Colonel,"  says  I ;  "  and  there  ain't  no 
better  times  than  them." 

The  old  man  he  gets  into  the  buckboard  on  one  side 
and  he  taken  the  two  twins  on  his  knees.  On  the  seat 
back  of  him  was  Pa  and  Ma  Wisner  —  me  riding  with 
Old  Man  Wright,  in  the  middle.  She  was  a  three- 
seat  buckboard,  and  the  mules  was  full  of  oats  and 
plunging  some ;  but  Jimmie  didn't  mind  —  he  was  driv- 
ing, with  Bonnie  Bell,  on  the  front  seat. 

"All  set?"  says  he,  turning  his  head  around;  and 
Old  Man  Wright  nods. 

"  Giddap !  "  says  Jimmie,  and  turns  'em  loose. 

Bonnie  Bell,  she  turns  around  halfway,  half  looking 
at  him  and  half  at  the  twins,  and  says  she : 

"Home,  James!" 


(3) 


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